The Butterflies Of Provence, Brian Doswell [top books of all time .TXT] 📗

Just once in a while, it snows on the French Riviera.

The snowflakes hang in the air like feathers after a pillow fight.

Some say it is the Angels dusting their shelves.

Others say these are the pure white

Butterflies of Provence.


Les Papillons de Provençe

My bedroom window, cold and grey,
Admits the light of each new day,
The air is cold, the sun is low,
I wonder if it might just snow.

Frost lies heavy on the ground,
And yet the air is full of sound,
Birdsong fills the morning air,
Their voices come from everywhere.

The garden wakes with early breeze,
That rustles leaves and stirs the trees,
I leave my bed and, happily,
I go to make the morning tea.

The kitchen window, filmed with ice,
Reminds me that, just once or twice,
I miss the cold and blustery blow,
That heralds northern England’s snow.


But, never here beside the sea,
Never here, the snow for me,
I stir the pot and find my cup,
And make the brew to warm me up.

I gaze across the pale blue sky,
Is that sleep’s dust still in my eye,
Wait, it’s a flake of frozen ice,
Descending on my paradise.

Now there’s two and three and four,
Suddenly there’s plenty more,
All thought of tea and toast are gone,
Ils sont arrive, les Papillons.

Publication Date: 08-10-2010

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