Les Courses de la Fete – for the Poetry Challenge

Winter in South Central France

The skittling, seasonal wind
cuts the corner by the church.
It leaves a Christmas message
branded on rouge cheeks.

At the Tabac, an old Huguenot
spits out the ancient chestnut
that only a Catholic redeemer
could find virtue in Winter birth.
The delicate demi-tasse,
clenched in labouring fist,
dispenses miasma Arabica;
sour satyr now smiling saint.

A span of religious tolerance,
twixt tabernacle and temple.
The Café du Commerce,
across the great divide.
Coffee-misted haloes pierce the veil,
glimpses of the faithful;
where Gourmands recite
Complex pleasures in simple feast.

Anglo-Saxon vulgarity is not displayed.
No bran tubs, Secret Santa
or M and S underwear.
French Fancies are hidden under wraps.
Everything stops for coffee,
Yes; and lunch,
the occasional show
of workers’ solidarity.

The happy Café mist gives no ground
to the frenzied hunt for Christmas.
Perfection is a daily given.
the simple rhythm of life.