July month blond - Poemes & Diaporama Website L'Arié...Joie

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 July, month blond

On incandescent light, July the blondinet opens with two leaves the doors of the summer,
Like a fountain of youth the light pours out in wave on the wave of Messidor dancing,
Here is the solar star announcing the season of the summerers against a background of smell of cut hay,
To finish at the crepuscular ores under the hululements of the hulotte against the turning noctules.

If you wander in the Pyrenees, go to meet the "immortèla" in procession,
Sung by the Béarnais, édelweiss is a hymn to love and freedom,
This white noble with the popular name of silver star or snow princess,
Launch his challenge to the mountain by setting up his six yellow heads surrounded by starry leaflets.

On the side of Laruns and Bielle the young conscripts offered an immortal to their promise,
The legend tells that in the valley of Gavarnie, three Aragonese refused these flowery advances,
The disgruntled shepherds turned to the sorceress, who turned them into subdued stones,
Since then, the morning balloons have distributed the édelweiss without diableries.

In summer it is at the bottom of an ariegeois combe that "lou Moussu", "lou pé descaous"
The barefoot as the Gascons call it, trots the amble, the truffle humming the air, benet,
Going up to the side the wooded slopes loaded with scents of asphodel and broom,
It will feast on brood of bee larvae protein, honey will be the dessert of the bear.

While the blueberries dye the fields of barley, a splash of poppies blushes the corn,
As for the sky, like a volcano, it swells with scarlet on the horizon where the sun sets,
Leaving the place to the star of the nights in its coat of light with the mysterious sweetness wrapped,
Mooning on the path in the darkness of the undergrowth facing the growing day.

In the sleepy garrigue, the male cicada vibrates its lustrous cymbals,
But how sweet it is to feel the smell of mint by slightly crumpling its leaves,
Where in the hollow paths at the edge of the forest exhale the intoxicating perfume of the honeysuckle,
Offering shelter and cover to the gassed sphinx and the caterpillar of the sylvain azure.

In the summer the song of the nests gives place to the song of the crickets on their mound,
A throbbing melody that blazes from the dawn to the twilight,
Shuddering with excitement and dreaming merrily to the farniente of the holiday gentillettes,
In the meadows flowered by the high blue or purple cobs of the lark's feet.

In the Drôme Provençale, Oh lavender that you are beautiful when you stretch your furrows, charming,
Like a rippling ocean, covering the plateau with a mauve odor color,
When the breeze softly brings you shivering in shimmering waves,
To end up in the torrid heat of summer in tears of intoxicating perfume.

In the vineyards of Bordeaux, after his winter rest the vineyard wept in Spring,
The important rains of June caused the stain to wash the fluorescent pollen,
Preventing the good fertilization of the flowers and favoring the millerandage of the atrophied grains,
Also struck by the downy mildew that copper sulphate from Bordeaux can eradicate.

The wine-making sayings foreshadowing all these phenomena,
March wind and April rain swell the barrel,
St Jacques rainy gives wine without fire,
If July is beautiful, prepare your barrels well.

After the fires of July 14, the grapes will take its definitive colors with the veraison,
But sometimes steel flashes of light blinding the horizon,
Annunciators of devastating hail, preventing vines from dressing in reddish emerald,
Unless Eole chases these bellicose hordes, the sun powdering gold the heavy vines.

And if in July the mower makes hay and corn,
L'ARIÉ ... ..JOIE with its rainbow-colored cap,
Dreaming of his next southern holiday in the land of the sun,
He flew to new enchanted dreams.

He dreams of the immobile waves of the desert of the Namib honey-colored,
Where on this stretch of sand the shadows of the dunes resemble lakes at dusk,
Under the dry haze which unfolds on the horizon the ocher dust rises towards the belly of the sky,
When such a mirage, a gazelle oryx with long horns striated on the undulating sand wanders.

He also dreams of the foehn bending the heads of pines on the steep sides,
This wind brushes people, caresses them with its languorous languor and leaves them gray with lukewarmness,
Above, the cocks of heather and the white partridges creep under the neves,
 The isards go up towards the Pyrenean peaks to shelter their little baroudorurs.

                                                                                                                   L’ ARIÉ…JOIE

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