Barcelona night beats hot with the rhythm of the street.
Life bursts out of every alcove.
People meet to tell stories over white cheese, green olives, and red wine.
Spotlit cathedrals cast shadows over dim lit alleys. Silently observing. As they have done for centuries.
Centuries prior when they watched the bold knight’s armour shine in the moonlight.
Silently presiding over loud conquests and celebrations.
Hopes for a new life and sadness as lives died in the helpless, loving arms of mothers.
But the rhythm remains. As it was then, it is now again.
And the rhythm draws us closer.
The night traffic circles the roundabout, like fish in a barrel.
The young men puff up their chests for young ladies who watch with one eye, just enough to keep the game going.
And so, full of the tastes, sights and echoes of Barcelona we leave in the morning for the peaceful fields of France.
A long day’s drive. Vineyards doused in golden afternoon light. Shifting to orange and red, then inky blue black as dew settles on grapes working the silent alchemy that makes wine.
The morning comes with markets fresh with produce and promise.
Fresh scrubbed merchants with white linen clothes.
Red faced purveyors of ripe cheeses, olives with garlic and coarse herbs waiting to be crushed, slowly between fingers held up to the nose, eyes closed.
Breathe in the life.
Breathe in the life now blooming in the markets, between the corridors of old churches.
Flowers among the dead in the cemeteries and heavy, dark air in the basement crypts that remind us that life is fleeting.
But yet so very much in our hands, for we can step into sunshine and today feel more alive than ever.
As the markets close, everyone returns to their cozy homes to share the day’s pursuits.
A baguette sits in the kitchen, celebrating a gentle hunt.
Conversation grows. Fresh bread is cut, wine converted from the sunshine of earlier days is poured in view of new minted starlight through open windows.
The heat gives way to a cool breeze, candles burn yellow upon wooden tables surrounded by children playing.
Smiling parents and laughter and kids teasing, misbehaving, the knowing parents knowing that they once did the same.
Laughter everywhere.
Cigarettes are lit as the children go to bed, watching flies dance beneath the ceiling.
Cheeks red from the day’s sun and a dog outside the door. Laying cool on the hard floor.
The parents wax poetic on life and politics, solving all the world’s problems over dominos. Slapped down with determined resolve.
And eventually we cannot fight the weight of the night, and so we sleep again. Heavy as stone in clouds of soft linen.
Morning returns with newfound light and a trip to the patisserie.
The hiss of the espresso machine. Steam comes out from all sides, rising above pastries shining, crusty beneath a dirty, sunlight window
Sugar and wax paper, the fresh-baked smells of invitation.
The tables tell stories. The smell of wood and varnish. Smiles and french accents.
We purchase a baguette for lunch.
And we venture out into a new day of life to be lived in the moment.
A couple passes by. Their baby in the pram, round wheels challenging square cobble stones.
The clatter of daily routine. They smile.
Love is all around.
And so we return to Canada, our busy lives, while life goes on in the cities and villages left behind.
But life is here too.
We just have to take the time.
(To see some of the photographs that we took that inspired this poem, click here)