Peter Lilly: Poems

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. 

Where the known world gets smaller and exploration becomes a valid career choice. Where the surrounding islands silhouette a mysterious calling to make this feel like the mainland. Where mountains peek Monroe heights and Sahara heats merely a fathom from the shore, rocky and peppered with olive groves. Where the black sands of the southern beach of Preveli scald your soles and the pink-white shells of the deserted Chrissi Island draw breathe in stark contrast. Where the green hew of northern rocks, outlined with clean salty foam are surrounded by the depths of transparency and turquoise. Where the raki is freely given to oil the joints of the evening and ease the passing to tomorrow. Where the country lanes smell like sour goats whose bells chime a native melody to echo across scorched hills. Where gracious attitudes let time pass at its own pace, leaving rich tourists uneasily glancing at expensive watc...