Airs Of Provence

September in southern France
and the purple and pink bougainvillea 
still blooms outside
my hotel room, 
its honeyed scent 
almost overpowering,
perhaps surprising is better, mixing 
delicately with wafts of thyme 
when I walk on the grass or the dried lavender, 
not as purple as when still on the bush.
Maybe it’s the rosemary in the confiture 
de prune on the breakfast bar. I untangle
the odours of scrambled eggs, pain 
au chocolat and small crusty country rolls 
fresh from the bakery. The plain yoghurt
made at a farm nearby can be paired
with fresh local figs, or oranges and grapefruit
from Spain. Later, in the garden, I capture
the fragrance of plane and pine trees, the garrigue
flavoured in the wild herbs of Provence,
the dry air heated by sun on the limestone
of les Alpilles, ripening grapes 
or the pungent yeast 
from those already picked, 
crushed by machines
not the romantic stomp of feet 
married to the laughter of the treaders.
Perhaps it’s the whiff of wood ovens and 
hearths, or the alarming perfume of forest
fires current and past. The stench of airplane
fuel used by the Canadairs as they bomb
those blazes with salt water 
from the Mediterranean. Or the smell
of my imagination working overtime.

—Lee Ellen Pottie

Lee Ellen Pottie is an editor of literary and academic writing, a poet and reviewer; a sessional professor at UPEI; and an amateur photographer and painter. 

Each month Bren Simmers selects a poem by an Island poet for The Buzz.