Revolution was born in the roiled fields of France.
The turning was here, with the surf in the vineyard.
The twittering of swallows in the thatched eves,
Chattering, like famished farmers in their smoky inns,
The clinking of pottery tankards rousing blood,
Fists flying in bluster after sinking a few more.
The daylight charging down the shutters
Prods bed-bound sagging, stragglers with quivering guts.
The explosion of fizzing vomit across the dusty field
To top off the pain of a night on the village tiles.
The haze hovering over the crop and above the heads
Of the staggering host, plotting and stewing
New plans of change to put to bed combusted injustice.
In the roiled fields of France, revolution is born.