Having just climbed through ages up what seemed an endless flight of narrow winding gothic spiral stairs I step out right into the wind's brute force instinctively my arms grasp for a hold fearful lest I blend suddenly with the white horses and the fields of the Camargue far down below
Wedged safely in a nook of stone a hefty tourist leans out wide between the walls toward the setting sun
her summer skirt is blown waisthigh revealing unexpectedly delicate lace above sturdy thighs
her body opens to the strong soft touch of the Mistral
A little later she walks past me clothes gathered level gaze calm and self-assured
and leaves me wondering whether the mighty abbot on his solitary tower and his exclusive brotherhood of men had ever understood the wind that blew and still blows through two feet of stone like they were silk and thrills a woman to her bone