The trees are still bare 
They still make the scene 
fields invaded Mole traps, that's life underground 
The only greenery is the Scots ivy parasites 
The mist softens the prospect
The sunny hillsides 
branches of winter are comfortable under the sun shy 
There, responsible, quiet hamlets 
such beautiful foliage 
campaign Berry is my haven of love
The cruel wind North-East had sold its up to a bit of breeze, cool, certainly, but not bad. Mist, light blue, failed to hide the mountain-side villages. The walk was quiet, awe, slow, meditative. In agreement with nature that leaves caressed by scouts this spring, the smells, the colors of a misty purple, the cries of birds that streak the sky clear snorting, smoothed their feathers in winter.
As I walked I thought that seven years ago disappeared Claude Nougaro, ten days before my son ...
As I walked I thought that seven years ago disappeared Claude Nougaro, ten days before my son ...
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