by JP Davies
Françoise Hardy trills
‘Le Temps de L’amour’
as the city draws back
Sunday morning sheets;
we slug galoise-scented coffee
and remember the night:
crates of wine, music
in the Marais bookshop;
the Dutchman waltzing
a plastic rose seller,
pronouncing us man and wife
with a jasmine ring.
At Longchamp you took a chance
on Molly Malone, my outsider love,
trouncing all at twelve-to-one;
losing bets fluttering like confetti.
Hurtling below the city,
our reflection captured in Metro windows.
In Père Lachaise, Oscar Wilde’s bones
Our shadow shifts on the balcony;
a wine bottle continues to pour.
In a darkening chamber the stylus settles,
Francois Hardy sings ‘Le Temps de L’amour.’