THE BLACK SWAN
The sun has fallen and it lies in blood.
The moon is weaving bandages of gold.
O black swan, where, oh, where is my lover gone?
Torn and tattered is my bridal gown,
And my lamp is lost, and my lamp is lost.
With silver needles and with silver thread,
The stars stitch a shroud for the dying sun.
O black swan, where, oh, where has my lover gone?
I had given him a kiss of fire,
And a golden ring, and a golden ring.
Don’t you hear your lover moan?
Eyes of glass and feet of stone,
Shells for teeth and weeds for tongue,
Deep, deep, down in the river’s bed,
He’s looking for the ring.
Eyes wide open, never asleep,
He’s looking for the ring, looking for the ring.
The spools unravel and the needles break,
The sun is buried and the stars weep.
O black wave, O black wave, take me away with you.
I will share with you my golden hair,
And my bridal crown, and my bridal crown.
Oh, take me down with you
Take me down to my wand’ring lover
With my child unborn, with my child unborn.
As I drew nearer to my favourite spot this morning, a bird of prey, larger than a kestrel but smaller than a buzzard, plummeted from the sky on to a small rodent, but, doubtless alarmed by my approach, released it at once, allowing the startled creature to scurry away to safety, squeaking its song of freedom amidst the scrub.
France-Monde | La sédentarité nous tue à petit feu
— Read on www.lalsace.fr/actualite/2018/06/03/la-sedentarite-nous-tue-a-petit-feu
Un joli endroit pour faire un saut en face du port d’Ars. On y mange d’ailleurs très bien.
I’ve just cycled out to the Ars end of Loix in order to see the Loix end of Ars, so to speak.
Geographically speaking, the Loix end of Ars is also of course the arse end of Ars, and you don’t need tracing paper to prove it, not even Bronco or Izal Medicated tracing paper, each as indispensable as a good crayon to the aspiring geographer.
Loix, Ars & Les Portes
The Stuttering Cyclist and the Maid of Ars
I cycled down to Ars
I cycled down to Ars
One sunny day in May
And when I was in Ars I
Saw a maiden pass I
Met the Maid of Ars
I took her for a glass, I
Took her for a glass, I
Took her for a beer
I said I’m fond of Ars I
Said I’m fond of Ars I
Said I loved her here
She thought I’d said her rear she
Thought I loved her rear
That sunny day in Ars
I said that it was true too
That I’d be true to you to
You and to your Ars
I’ll take you up the aisle
Take you up the aisle, I’ll
Take you up the Zzz
I’d rocked her off to sleep I’d
Rocked her off to sleep
Her nose was in her beer
And then popped out her glass eye
Plopped into her glass I
Saw it stare at me
She didn’t look so hot then
So I forgot her bot then
I cycled out of Ars
I’d met the maid of Ars I’d
The Glass-Eyed Maid of Ars I’d
Lived to share the tale
For I had met the Maid of
Ars and she was made of
Arse, but for her eye
So now I tilt my glass I
Tell tall tales of Ars, aye
Until my glass is dry
A lovely recent cycle ride around the western half of the Île de Ré, through vineyards laden with intoxicating promise, past wild flower meadows, across causeways traversing salt flats and along seaside pistes frequented by a multitude of sea birds, avocet, oyster-catcher, herring gull, hoopoe, stilt, egret, swan, sacred ibis, and let’s not forget the humble coot crossing the road with incongruous gaucherie.
Hollyhocks, bicycles and proximity to the sea are the essence of the Île de Ré, albeit in a platitudinous nutshell.