The Oddest Thing:

Close by the aged and agreeable,

Though unremarkable burg of Meneac

There lies a small lake,

L’Etang de la Rosaie.

A secret and unassuming diamond.

Well maintained and little used,

For walking or for fishing,

It is a favourite for my small pack of three.

Oftentimes, come rain or shine, we take our balade,

Along the smooth paths, winding through

Neatly mowed grass, scattered shrubs

And well-groomed trees,

Below the cooling willow’s cascading spray,

Beside the placid, unrevealing waters,

Ducks dabbling, fish jumping,

Watching the seasons change,

The births and deaths ordered by

The inexorable, uncompromising

Passing of the years.

To one end there is a rough wood in which

We foray from time to time, and I

Stoop and grunt, gathering kindling

Like some long-gone old peasant,

And there lies, too, at its foot

An intermittent stream and small pond,

Dark, brown and quietly inhospitable.

Walking further on there stands a copse,

Insignificant but savoured by the dogs none-the-less,

As through we wend our lazy way, though the youngest

And smallest, a bold Jack Russel he, drops behind

And always stays anchored like my shadow

Until we pass a certain spot, no different from another,

To human sensitivity at least.

Curious, one day I took a different path

And in but moments came to the other side

Where weeds and grasses thrive.

We pressed through, the pack and I,

And found the oddest thing

Opposite where my little chap

Behaves so unlike himself.

There, coarsely cleared, lies a well.

Its neatly pointed stone flanks visible through

The iron grill and corrugated covering,

So very un-French, clumsily but firmly secured

Against both misfortune and malfeasance.

.

Close by the well stands a greying cross,

Simple but robust, waste high and more,

Finely carved from stone,

And between it and the well a little area,

Like at a grave, is clear,

With weed-free shingle and a holder of sorts

Within which that day stood a plain vase,

 Jam pot like, filled with dead flowers,

A faded and forlorn testament

Of memory, loss and love.

The lonely cross, no cheap ornament this,

Bears no name or mark other than

A growth of lichen, oddly suggestive

Of a miscoloured human heart,

Near where the two bars intersect. 

From time to time since that day

I have returned and trod down the

Nettles, weeds and grasses, keeping it

Clear, and shown some small respect,

For someone, somewhere, cares;

This place in the modest wilderness

Proclaims a lonely heartbreak.

Today the vase was full again,

Artificial flowers, but silk, bought

And placed with seeming loving care,

With one a single, exquisite, blood-red rose

Prominent in their midst,

Perhaps a final farewell.

And daffodils, too, waved their heads to me,

Planted opposite the cross

On the well’s other side.

Day and night, cold and mute

The cross remains alone.  No mighty oaks

Stand sentinel, just scrub and sad

Little firs, half-choked by weeds,

Though large enough to maintain

The unrelenting gloom.

Did a broken hearted lover drown there?

Is that why the unmarked cross,

And the silently weeping memorial

Stand on unconsecrated ground?

Does the soul who tends it

From time to time,

Carry still the scars of that event?

I do not know, and think perhaps

I do not want to know, what befell and

To whom and when and why and

What brings the person

From time to time on their solitary

Pilgrimage, or penance, with their flowers.

I only know that my small, big-hearted dog

Discovered, without seeing, this lonely

Spot, this enigma, which disturbs him still,

And that I will go from time to time

And tramp down the weeds and pay some

Respect for an unknown soul,

Now at peace,

And an unknown survivor,

Still in sad and isolated pain.

And quietly I shall pray great, lovers joy

For when they meet again.