Blossoms in a Basin

Spent an hour on the phone,
perhaps a little longer
time seemed to pass,
in the silence of our words.
We held on to memories, I suppose,
like sooty marks on jeans
as we leant on métro station walls,
smoking evil gitanes,
I switched to filter many years ago,
then quit, then started, then quit,
our eyes huge in that
in between place, hollowed underground.
Checks and stripes and converse sneakers,
my sunflower rucksack, that took me to places
I only dream about now.
A lot of years and soot have passed,
baby wipes and tears;
we should be used to it now
but the sadness ever creeps
and a Paris basin filled with flowers
with diagrams on bistro cloths,
hasty notes on napkins.
All gone now.
I spent an hour on the phone,
perhaps a little more
I only heard three words,
words I have heard before,
numbers are reducing,
the trains are on strike
and cigarettes are banned,
soot is wiped from the walls.
I'll meet you on the Rennes to Paris train,
where you'll relieve me of my case,
I'll think back to sunflowers
and blooms that grow in basins.



Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 599 times
Written on 2012-06-24 at 18:23

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Melie Bacon
I applaud you on this poem...I'm half French/lived in Paris as a child and this write evokes memories...your attention to detail and consistency of ambiance/mood is laudable. What a drag it is getting old, eh?

Mel
2012-07-17


countryfog
I've not been to Paris in many years now but this takes me back in the stunning little details of place and particulars that are so evocative (though I was a Gauloises man myself). I see my old luggage in the closet and understand perfectly your rucksack and how it "took me to places I only dream about now."
2012-06-25