Snowfall on Mont Ventoux, ©John O’Grady, 2013
Acrylic on Panel, 6″x 6″
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The summit of Mont Ventoux is now shrouded in snow and it glistens in the deep blue Provençal sky.
As I was coming back from Avignon yesterday evening, it dominated the landscape.
I got to thinking about the snow falling silently on the Giant of Provence and how quiet it must be up there as night fell.
Then in a stream of consciousness, I thought of that painfully beautiful part in the final paragraph of The Dead:
“Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland.
It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westwards,
softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves.
It was falling too upon every part of the lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lay buried.
It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns.
His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling,
like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”
Don’t you just love snow?