Mistral in the Bastille - Emily Marie Bording

[Larry Robinson]

Mistral in the Bastille

Censers swing like pendulums, near madam’s barred window.
Cinnamon and vanilla waft through shutters, blown apart by a strong mistral.
A magpie scouts for items to primp his nest, during mating season.
The sweet incense lures him onto madam’s cluttered vanity:
A tortoise shell brush tangled with strands of chestnut curls,
a silver tube of lipstick, gems and ornate broaches,
surround a small bouquet of gilded petals.
“May our lives be like flowers in the sight of God.”
Her distant lover wrote on a forget-me-not note 
ribboned around the waist of crystal vase.
The mistral whistles a solemn tune, through the crack beneath her door.
The magpie lands in a hollowed tree, 
Ribbons a bed to entice and protect
his soon-to-come mate
from the mistral that threatens to keep her away.

Madam laces her boots,
ties back her untamable locks,
clings to the knap of creviced rocks, 
climbing up the mountain’s unmarked trail.
High above the thatched-roofed village, dotted with flickering flames 
wood fires are stoked, not for the sake of heat or something to eat, 
but for the daily rhythm of ritual itself.  
Fishermen paddle the length of lake, farmers shake the soils from tools
and the rheumy eyed elders sit upon three legged stools, 
while mothers comb through rows of the natty headed kids, 
who chew then spit the cud of canes, 
into the white coal flames.
Beneath a rocky outcrop, comes the swish and swagger of crocodile. 
Monkeys scurry and scream, spring and snarl,
to dodge the open jaws, hunting for it’s next meal.

Madam feels the pangs from a love torn asunder;
sharp as a reptile’s hunger
vacant as the eyes of a motherless child. 
An overbearing wind grows stronger, day by day.
Yet the needy gnaw on her heart and suck every last morsel of care.
It keeps her in this bastille of beggars, hooked on handouts. 
Boys, able as oxen, seduced by street candy and tossed coins.  
 Girls, graceful as gazelles, sedate as zoo animals.
 Both have learned to cower from the wilds.

The mistral carries seeds and scraps onto the far shores of tomorrow, 
where Fisherkings and Flamingos sort precious pinks from borrowed blues. 

Everyday the strong and feeble help each other
carry the burden of their grinding stone, 
by sharing the unexpected generosity of a smile.

 Madam hears a message more friendly than fierce,
	“Who will help?, Who will help?”, the magpie screeches.
She hears the question that pumps the muscle of care.

Brilliant bougainvialla, perky pansies and fragrant frangipani,
flourish in red clay soils, fields of dry grass and rotting canoes.

The rhythm of ritual, the lapping of lake, 
the lightening that splits a ten ton boulder in two, 
the 800 year old Baobab burnt beyond recognition in moments.

Over sahara sands and ocean waves the mistral howls, 
	“GO!, GO!, before time snaps its jagged jaw.”

The magpie croons for his mate,
	“Love’s the root of desire. 
	  Love’s the scent that remains, 
	  long after blossoms have waned.”

Madam’s feels no division or distinction from the love of the one above,
who carries her away on a strong north-westerly wind.

Tonight, her lover will wear her frangipani perfume 
and a vase of sunflowers will brighten their room.

A forget-me-not note is tied to their hearts; 
	“Love’s the promise and prayer 
  	for a world that has known 
 	too much hunger and despair.”

		- Emily Marie Bording