why this village,

this area, when it could 

easily have been any 

of ten thousand others,

one classified ad

amongst many, over

a boozy Sunday lunch

the idea of holidaying

in a French farmhouse

and forty years fly by,

and here we are,

almost locals, returning

like swifts and swallows

to the place we love,

there’s a serenity about

this place, no airs nor

graces, just peace,

the natives must think 

us strange, but have

now welcomed three 

generations of my family 

here as fondly as their own,

until we fly away again

as we know we must