Willows of the Wind

A narrative poem in free verse

The north wind whispered to her, “Ma chérie, come, come with me, it’s time you must leave you’ve been here long..long enough a spirit like yours is meant to be free taking root is not part of the plan They will forgive you speak of you fondly and know, oui, know it was you with your delicate treats that changed them for..forever Now, pack up your things, your dear petit fille et ta bonne mère on the bookshelf Hurry now, don’t be slow we must tender to the night and be far..far away by the shimmering first glow of une nouvelle journée.”

Ushered along, deep into le nuit noire, le vent du nord gently blew sweet songs in Vianne’s ear She followed its bidding it was all she could do there was no other choice it was a given She knew not where she was being taken but trusted her guide, the wind, after all, was her icon

Through the mist of light slumber came the shrill call of a rooster and the glint of the sun on the horizon The wind tarried a while longer then in a puff it was gone snuffed out without cause no au revoir Vianne was left abandoned

It worried her not she knew what it meant a sense of excitement enlivened her senses She awoke the girl on her knee “We’re here, darling,” she murmured, softly stroking the little one’s cheek “This is where we’re to be. Come along, sweet one, there is much to get ready.”

The villagers had never seen anything like it an extravagance beyond belief lusciously, delectably tempting a mouth-watering oh la la, give-us-more The mayor thought it utterly shameful, a sacrilegious, self-indulgent desire, that showed them all up for their evil and condemned them to the devil’s hell-fire

Vianne smiled at him ever-knowing while standing proud and true on her ground; the north wind had not come calling, a warm south-east breeze fanned her arms This was her place for the meantime no mayor would get in her way she would beguile them all with her charms and the wind would decide if she stayed

She, more than he, knew what he’d come for as she proffered delicacies moulded by her hands He, of course, feigned abhorrence but not soon enough, too late for the whiff of heaven pervaded his olfaction and made love to his pursed unkissed lips

Résistance was futile retaliation a failure

She found him some time later with the evidence writ all over his face of a post-orgy intoxication that quantified his disgrace His scandalous downfall from high places henceforth forthwith, a most mortifying ruination but as good fortune would have it the winds of change blew upon them infusing a blushstroke of compassion and orchestrating with aplomb a truce of mutual appreciation that would serve them well in good time

In the weeks bygone there had come a-mooring a river gypsy of ill-repute a blow-in from the east a free spirit like her with charismatic mystique that tested everyone’s mettle Vianne and he saw into each other saw things they both already knew saw what they truly were made of borne of the very same seed; they were indeed

willows of the wind

And so, they danced dans la brise cheek-to-cheek to a Roma serenade the wind fanning the fire that blazed within and around them kindled by their tender core wood But, as fate would dictate and grief would take hold the village ignited a fuse They needed someone to blame; it’s always the same with wrongful righteous retribution A sou’ sou’ westerly swept in shooing the river rat, Roux, off in his boat downstream “Good riddance,” they cried “and not soon enough. We don’t need the likes of you.” Vianne’s little girl was heart-broken She, in her wistfulness, had haloed a dream believing it would all come true but for now she was sadly mistaken

In swift-swallow time the north wind came a-whistling arousing in Vianne her latent restlessness, an avid desire to follow its calling and avoid unpleasant redress, “It’s time for us to go, my love,” she told her reluctant daughter. “Non Momie!” Anouk protested, “I like it here. We must stay. Please don’t make me go away.”

They argued most bitterly Neither one giving in to the other “Mais, ma fille, you know the wind knows what’s best for us. It’s telling me we must leave.” “But what if Roux comes back and finds we’re not here?” “He’s just like us. The wind. There is no turning back for him. Now pack your bags and let’s move on. I have your grand mére in my hands.”

No sooner had Vianne spoken than the urn crashed at her feet The north wind rushed in from the window gathering the spilt dust in its wake And so it was that, like a genie released from her bottle, Anouk’s grand mére was set free gone with mystical grace on her magic carpet sur la brise

Vianne and her daughter looked at each other Shock. Horror. What a nightmare! Then realisation filtered in the spell of deception was broken the north wind had spoken again “I have what I want thank you, ma chérie This here is the place I want you to be.. be..ee..elong forget about me I am but the wind in your willow.”

Anouk smiled at her mother she’d heard the wind too “Momie,” she said with sweet sincerity “Please show me how to make chocolat.”

© Carolyn Hastings 2021

My narrative poem, if you haven’t guessed it by now, is based on the delightful movie, Chocolat, with Juliette Binoche as Vianne, the free-spirited chocolatier extraordinaire; Johnny Depp as the much-maligned Roux; Alfred Molina playing the straitlaced village mayor who overcomes his chocophobia in splendid decadent style; and the wind doing what wind does.

I read an article recently that spoke about the influence that nature has on emotions. It had me thinking. And then the persistent itch to write something began and wouldn’t stop. My original plan had been to write something around Annie Proulx’s wonderfully aesthetic story, The Shipping News (it’s one of my favourite book-movie combos) but the muse wasn’t convinced now was the right time. Instead, she kept pushing Chocolat to front-of-brain. “This one,” she said. “Write about this one.” I could almost hear her insistent fingers tapping on the DVD cover. Who am I to ignore my own muse?

No sooner had she gotten her way than she (her name’s Lynda) started pushing The Wind in the Willows at me. I thought it was because of her fondness for small creatures and classic tales but, as per usual, she was absolutely right. The symbolism of wind and willows is as present in The Wind in the Willows as it is in Chocolat. I could go on and explain more but that would mean an essay and I’ve already imposed on you all long enough.

I will say, however, that it’s not lost on me that Chocolat is set during Lent and the climax occurs around Easter. The fact that I’ve written this piece in the days leading up to Easter is yet another example of how my dear soul sister and heavenly muse, Lynda, goes about her business. Faith-based and family traditions are important to her — so too is chocolate! 🍫 😋 💛

With that said, I would like to thank each and every one of you for reading my rather long-winded whimsical story poem. Special thanks and gratitude to Somsubhra Banerjee and Priyanka Srivastava at Literary Impulse for giving this piece a home. 🙏 💕