The lowest of the low

ON THE METRO In Paris a man follows his whiskers onto a train. He holds out a cardboard cup and declares: I have no money. I have no job. No one will hire me. I am too old. I have no family. I have not eaten today. I sleep in the gutter. I have no other clothes than these. I have done despicable things. I stand here before you without shame the lowest of the low. Some of his audience turn the pages of their newspapers. He moves through the carriage behind his empty cup and when the train stops at the next platform he steps out.

THE GRAVES AT SAINT-ROMAN Thanks to it make known Saint-Roman to your relations and to your friends, thank you. - Visitors brochure Atop the ancient Saint-Roman monolith the Troglodyte monks have carved their lives into stone. The soaring altar and pulpit, the Bishop’s seat, the wine press, even their windowless cells ground patiently from the heart of the mountain. But especially on top of the cliff with its strategic view of the river and the factories of Beaucaire the tombs chiseled from rock. The Troglodyte monks must have been small men for there are scores of them gouged shoulder to shoulder graves no bigger than a child’s bath, some filled with rain, some with loose bones, some empty but for the reminder they offer the open sky. HERONS AND THE ANGLE-GRINDER Rowing on that peaceful lake blue dragonflies investigate pearls of light dripping from my oars. Across the water workmen crank up the angle-grinder, concocting doors for the boat shed. The metallic shriek tears the peace apart and three grey herons launch into the air arguing about which route to take. They circle the lough forward, backward orbiting in opposite directions silhouetted against the sky like the cardboard cut-outs of herons. All too aware of my presence on the still water, the mice of the rowlocks squeaking and knocking with an ancient sound. The grinder falls quiet. That shocking incongruity dissipates and calm surrounds the boat in the middle of the lake. The herons find the reeds and enter dusk on the far shore. I am wide awake as rain begins to hiss in the trees. In that softly rocking stillness ripples circle outward from this sudden centre.