|
When
I first visited the hillside in Southern France topped with the
remains of three 12th C. windmills, there was an air of desolation
about the broken cross beams of their sails. The next time I climbed
the dusty road to the top, the repair had begun and the fabric of the
sails
was filled with the wind. The last red poppies were fading and
there was a newness about this hill which had watched over the route of
centuries of pilgrims making their way to Santiago de Compostela in
Spain. It was a day to linger.
ABush
|