The clouds are coming now and appear like giant snow drifts with faceted spurs.
The wind, warm and constant, blows from the copper sulphate sea
Upon ruined sandcastles, scavenger pigeons, discarded bottle corks and us, the last contingent.
To the west, the Esterel recedes into the mist, laying smoke
To cover its retreat, taking with it the blood-orange final power of the prisoner sun.
Here, the clacking of chairs, the shaking of towels, the chuntering complaints of tired children and the diminuendo of the background chatter are an elegy to Summer.
The quartier is quiet once more.
No roar of big engine-ed cars, or hum of nightclub drum and base.
We have watched the fond farewells,
Heard the bitter-sweet memories of the broken hearted.
And all we have is the rhythmic washing of the waves, and the persistent whistle of the wind
That took away the summer.