"Come to the edge, he said. They said: we are afraid. Come to the edge, he said. They came, he pushed them and they flew." - Apollinaire
While in France with my wife we decided to stop and take a nap in a church courtyard. This is approximately what we saw as we reclined on the grass, chatting, as we fell towards sleep, what we saw as we awoke, dreams still drifting across our eyes, rising above our heads, forever away from us.
We had walked most of the day, not knowing exactly where we were going, stopping occasionally for cheese, wine, etc.
At the entrance to the church courtyard there was a bust of the poet Apollinaire.
"It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes."
I thought this was an interesting poet's bust to have at the entrance of a church courtyard. My memory of him was not as a Christian, quite otherwise in fact, a modernist, a living sacrilege.
"Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind."
Perhaps everyone in France is considered a Christian...
"Haven't we drifted far and lost, From fair dawn to dreary dusk?"
At least they must all be considered Catholics, I wondered.
