An Ending Out of Sight

This charming street is descending now

With gravity quickening our step.

Ahead, I see our route curve north,

And while I cannot be certain,

I sense we approach the edge of town.

Still, if true, there’s little to be done

But to slow our pace, hold hands firmly,

And see our pleasant stroll to its end.

Les Mémoires Se Réveillent et S’Endorment

 

IMG_5429motherJPEG1-lomo-cropped for card-mediumThis morning at breakfast, upon tasting a slice of Compté cheese for the first time in 47 years, I ambled down a narrow street of worn stones in walled Besançon; I distinguished the subtle differences in a five-mushroom entrée at Les Tables D’antan; I perceived the faint swish of Bourgogne in mouths at a tasting in a cave, I inhaled the fresh sweetness of grass in the field outside the farmhouse where I slept; I clapped the white chalk dust from my hand as I ended my class at the Centre de Linguistique.

 Upon looking at the clock on the stove, I realized that I was running a little late; I washed down the Compté with the last of my coffee and put my cup and dish in the sink; I rewrapped the cheese and returned it to the refrigerator; I dressed as I planned my day.