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We said it would be the Luberon,
Perhaps mid-September
When the crowds had left? Or mostly.
We’d find a table with a view:
Oppède Le Vieux, perhaps? Or better at Sénanque
In the hollow, amongst the purple
We’d drink Domaine Ott – barely pink, well chilled
But elegant like you
We’d banter with black olives
Or the tapenades with fig you liked
Then the smell of roast chicken would
Demand the group’s attention
And with it, we’d bring out salad leaves,
And beef tomatoes, the primed burrata.
After, some would contemplate the madelaines
And lavender honey ice creams lying in wait.
But then comforted and comfortable,
We’d pause and think of you –
And feel once more the warmth you brought.
