Rue Hoche will not play second violin to the Antibes.
As an autumn sun’s first glance touches your brow,
I see that even street cleaners wear Aviators here,
And smart women emerge, tottering on heels,
With shopping bags as red as lips, as big as mogul credit-limits
And head for splattered zincs to drink Bellini’s and smoke cigarettes,
Their iPhones prostrate now waiting for the throb of action
Soon there’s the clatter and laughter that comes from food,
Prosciutto and burrata with berries red and dark,
The sizzle and the smell of vongole steaming in garlic,
The comedy of giant pepper pots wielded like wands before you,
Arriving lovers raise sunglasses, kiss and sit,
You sip and tongue the rosé,
I taste the same philosophy.
Laura is not here today, except in spirit,
Her multi-coloured presence conjuring pleasure
To all who come upon this pavement heaven.
In full content, I note
The sun has charmed your freckles.