It was after we’d cleaned
the house for a week
that hadn’t been lived
in ten years, walked the hills, with
violets and hawthorn blooming,
where foggy clouds swept through,
resolving, as they touched us, into snow
and a horse had joined the cows
by our bend in the river
where the swallows fly low,
and we’d drunk the local wine,
that the housewarming smell
of fish stock got all the way upstairs
and my body accepted that we are now
here, living, in the remotest part of France.
From Notes From a Mountain Village, forthcoming with Barbican Press in 2015.