Peter Lilly: Poems

Photograph of a vineyard in Les Cévennes, by Silje Lilly. Taken in July 2017. John 15:1-8 Gleaning grapes before October storms, the vines are ancient fingers, deathly-dry and knotted digits. bark-scarred with the wisdom of growing. They are crowned with a branchy vibrancy, of greenery, naivety and fertility. The miracle of the vine and the branches is the fruit. The credulous branches, are trusted to bear the weight of the yield, their green luminescence is continually fed by the vine that looks like deadwood.  A Lamb looking as though it had been slain. I wrote this poem in the Autumn of 2016 while I was in a vineyard on the outskirts of Montpellier, where Silje and I live, in the south of France. We were picking grapes after the harvest and enjoying time reading and writing in the autumn sun.  Silje took the photo in July 2017 while in another vineyard in Les Cévennes, a short drive north. Time and a...

Gentle chill mingles with February sun to warm my bones, and prick my skin with cold.  Lake calm sleep breath waves expose the broken shells that make up the earth,  and keep the land believing in winter.  When I lived in the U.K. the first sunny day of spring would burn itself onto my memory with relief from the cold, joy in the warmth, and anticipation for the summer to come. Most years I would write a poem on that day about my excitement (such as ' I have missed the sun ' written in April 2011).  Now I live in Montpellier in the south of France, that feeling comes a little earlier in the year. This year it was towards the end of February, when we were at the beach near Sète for the day. It was warm but the (relative) cold of winter was still clinging to the air. The feeling given by the weather matched  the relief and thankfulness we feel at finally moving into our flat here in Montpellier. 

Muted, we watched as the cheshire cat's teeth morphed from pearly white, through plaque yellow, to blood red. As the sickle moon descended into its silent grave in the horizon. Written September 2015. My wife and I were traveling  from Lyon to Montpellier, with some rather awkward covoiturage companions. The sickle blood-moon was ominous and haunting in the silent journey, and I penned this as well as I could in the pitch black of the car. 

Home is changing context, and that takes some time. It has to happen around you first, then seep in through your pours and unite your spine with your skin with your surroundings. Like with new language, listening, bumbling, confused, improving, trying and smoothing into rugged fluency. Home is changing context and that takes some time. Three weeks ago, my wife and I moved to Montpellier, in the South of France. It's a wonderful city but of course it takes time to adjust to new surroundings, new language, new culture. Last week I took some time to reflect, to feel that adjustment happening around me, to me and in me, and I wrote this.