Vertige

A vertiginous day. Following a night of a huge moon, poetry and wine into the very small hours. Today the hours stalled, as if pulled by that big moon, into a new tidal pattern. The morning was long and langourous, instead of slipping through the gaps like water in a colander, it stretched itself out, distorted, like a Dali clock.
To counter the horizontal morning, the afternoon had to be vertical. The only place to go was Montsegur.
The sky blown blue, a warm sun, a picnic beneath the Pog - hard occitan consonants in the air, bunches of daffodils and quince blossom on the stele, and on through muddy wood-paths, up onto the marbled stones, and up and up, through the buxus; cat's piss and knife handles.
The whole of France spread out to the north, the Corbieres, the Pyrenees, the mind trying to grasp the impossibility of such a place, in such a place, and as usual, failing.