Today I saw a bumble bee, trapped in a web on the wooden pillar of the barn, and a spider half its size, but big enough, ran out to catch it, changed its mind and ran back in again. I freed the bee with a clothes peg; instantly it flew towards a small cyclamen flower, which opened a pink door for it and let it in.
Today I saw a straight old man, tan jacket, smart cream linen hat and trousers, walk with a cane and a brisk purpose into the lotissement they call 'le Tertre'. Was it to see a woman, old now, he had once loved, or a young one he'd like to make a fool of himself over, or an old pal from service days, or was he simply going home, or none of these?
Today I saw the finely-pointed gable wall of the old house there, the walnut tree in splendour next to it, the Calvary beneath the limes, their leaf litter and the tiny hard velour-skinned fruits amongst it underfoot, and the strangely self-effacing angels on the housefront.
Today I knew that these, all these, hold meanings, stories, histories and worlds that I can't know, sealed in by time and space, holding themselves in mute and distant gentleness apart, refusing all translation.
Save in a play of light cast, aslant and rippling, onto the receiving presence of an inside wall.