One year, aged about 7 or 8, I scratched my initial on the stone part of one of the sculptures. Fast forward to 2007, and we were in the woods again, with me recast as a troubled teenager. And there on the stone was a faint trace of my bit of wanton vandalism, which I'd forgotten in all the intervening years. Sometimes time freezes.
The Crestet Centre d'Art makes another appearance in one of my most recent (as of 2015) poems, which I'll get round to posting soon. It's a captivating place indeed.
SOUL STONE
A sculpture in a
forest
The south of France
A dry, dusty hillside
The edge of Provence.
Coming down the track
Through the thirsty
trees
Little boy
Finger still sore
from the thorn
That hurt him earlier
Sees the sculpture
The stone and the carvings
of wood.
Smiles that smile
That twinkly smile of
his boyhood
Picks up a pebble
And scratches an A
And scratches an A
Between two stars on
the stone
Turns to go
He comes back next
year
But the memory’s
rotten
And so in the wood
The sculpture’s
forgotten
And a few more times
But still
He doesn’t remember
And then he returns
no more.
Except, for old
times' sake…
Through the thirsty
trees
Older boy
Heart still sore from
the girl
Who hurt him earlier
Sees the sculpture
The stone and the
carvings of wood.
(He’s almost a man
now
But not quite
Kept awake at night
By the almost which
he wants to fight.)
Peers at the stone
Draws a breath
And is engulfed
By the sudden tide of
memory.
Head shakes
No, can’t be –
Is.
He scratches his name
for the second time
For the next time
Which hasn’t yet
come.
He often reflects on
the space
The hundreds of miles
Between him and his
soul stone
When he’s alone.
And maybe
Just maybe
The A between two
stars
On the stone will
remain
In the forest long
after
This boy has given up
hope
And done something
stupid.
Grinning like Cupid
That little boy’s
face
Has gone for good
Lost in space
And time.
(Inspired by an experience at Crestet, Vaucluse.)
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