Dusk till Dawn

She lives above the florist
hangs her deeply flowered pots,
waters them at dusk and dawn
they adorn a street
with uneven cobbles
that steeply fall
to where the harbour lies
and fishermen who shout
while throwing ropes and nets,
their catch, a plat du jour
too expensive for the locals
too paltry for the type of tourist
that want dishes oversized
and spilling pomme frittes
served with moule as
an enterprising Monsieur Rocque
obliges, decanting cheaper
wines into bottles he keeps,
ironing out the labels.

Up in her eyrie, she sprinkles
a little on the ardour of lovers
smiling a little she'll toss
a bloom that he'll give, a flush
to grace a blush that
will fade and die
before the moon is fully out.
Her nest above the florist,
her pots a cunning blaze,
a tourist with aspiration
will snip, oblivious to her wit
as she poses, local colour
to adorn for a while
until it loses the flavour
of sojourns away
and sound of feet tapping
on the cobbles from dusk to dawn,
she'll take a book, yawn
sleep soundly in her bed of flowers
dreaming of moules et frittes.




Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2014-05-18 at 12:44

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one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
this is a quiet miracle of a poem

it reminds me, in some way i don't understand, of a shell, that you pick up at the seashore, and bring it home, and it never looks as beautiful as it did, wet and in its element

i'm sorry, i know that makes no sense, but i love your poem
2015-05-11



This is so vividly expressed that I could see her flowers, the balcony, the tourists below. What a beautiful and tender scene.
I enjoy so much your stories of these lovely places. :)
2014-05-18