Scores of Easter Mondays ago
my mother and I would break and eat
our Easter Eggs (hard-boiled, not
the chocolate obscenities) at dolmens
or standing-stones. About fifteen
years ago M. and I rolled our eggs
down Saul Hill, near Downpatrick
below a massive Mussolini-esque
grey statue of the saint.
Today here, near the village of Laramière
in south-west France, where I had also
brought M. and my long-deceased
and under-rated poet friend Tom Matthews,
I broke and ate my Easter Egg alone within
the chamber of a long, low dolmen
with massive roofstone: La Peyra Levada,
pictured beside my Peugeot 106 for scale.
In Ireland, some dolmens were inhabited.
Under this massive3-metre roof-stone
a small family of refugees could squat
and not be rained on,
though water would flow around their feet.
No comments:
Post a Comment