Angle Rue Hoche, Cannes

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.

The island fortress bakes in silence.

I sit shaded by the pines,

High above me, the look out post watches the bay,

The cicadas are strumming in anticipation of action,

The feeble breeze carries the voices of day-trippers

Waiting for the last boat of summer.

So musing on sentinels, I ponder

My talent for reconnaissance;

Nurtured from an early age (I think?)

By dad who dispatched me off

To take point and report back

On dangers lurking

At the end of Blackpool’s Central Pier.

In time, my nose for sensing what’s ahead

Became a skill people paid good money for.

But they call it strategy.

The restaurant is quiet now,

The final whistle has blown for the table footballers

The bikini pop up shop,

And the kaleidoscope of scenarios I have foreseen.

(*The look out post)