More arboricide

My brother had to fell the cypress that was fouling the gutter of the gite and threatening to dislodge tiles from the roof. It rattled and scraped alarmingly in the least wind. No one remembers why it was growing so close in the first place. But we were all shocked and ashamed to discover a hoopoe's nest in the felled tree.

The Glorious Twelfth

I have said nothing about the reasons for my silence, painful family reasons. And nothing about seismic world events and local difficulties. Sometimes we just end up, for no particular reason, resounding from the last loud noise. To my loyal follower, I can only apologise.

With regard to recent events, Prévert had the sense of it, years ago. He was writing about an escape from what we then called Borstal in the UK (forerunner of Young Offenders Institution):


Hunting the kid


Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

They can see birds on the island
all round the island is water

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

What's all this baying for blood?

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

It's a pack of the silent majority
out hunting the kid

who's had a bellyful of Borstal
So the screws used their keys on his teeth
and left him out cold on the concrete

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

Now he's broken out
on the run in the night
like a hunted beast
and everyone's galloping after -
policemen tourists shareholders artists

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

A pack of the silent majority
out hunting the kid
You don't need a permit
all real men do it
What is it swimming out there in the night
What are all these noises and lights
A kid on the run
They're firing their guns

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

All these chaps on the beach
empty-handed – they're gagging with rage

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!
Come back to shore come back to shore!

They can see birds on the island
and all round the island is water.


Jacques Prévert (trans AB)