Gordon Jarvie recalls the turning of the season on the coast of Brittany. Rosinante was the name of his campervan as well as Don Quixote’s horse.

     END OF SEASON, FINISTERE

(For Frances, who drove me there and back)

Fruit falls from the trees,

boats trawl the huge seas.

Harvest’s almost in, we’re shadows in the sun,

meandering up a sunny street in Guerlesquin.

~

We watch half-empty cruise boats sail away

as stragglers stroll the promenade at Bénodet.

Fishing boats drop lobster pots and creels:

we’re ghosts at a feast of shellfish, whitefish, eels.

~

Half-deserted campsites prepare for l’hivernage.

Kayaks, yachts, pleasure boats are pulled up sur la plage.

Swallows at Lanniron observe the turning leaves,

skim past the Orangerie, or over maize-field sheaves.

~

They’ll follow the tourists next week, they’ll be next to go

and the cycle will be complete again, everything locked away.

School groups will regain the busy streets of Concarneau

while winter walkers regain coastal paths at Le Conquet.

~

Then our faithful Rosinante will take us north again

from sunny Roscoff back to nippy Scottish winds and rain.

                                                                                September 2009