Fragile green leaves on
pollarded trees, still small and pale.
The Chartreuse
cemetery is full of mini buildings that families have erected over the tombs of
their loved ones. Some of them look as if the stone has been cleaned recently.
A young woman with an
open smile serves me a glass of Montagne Saint-Émilion. She tells me it’s a
good supple one to start with.
A handsome boy high on
drugs wearing two different sneakers pesters a woman on the tram. He moves on
to another woman and ruffles her son’s hair repeatedly. I wish she hadn’t let
him do that.
Poppies flowering by the railway track, red dots in an urban mess of cables and graffiti.
Wobbly slabs underfoot
as I walk across empty spaces between towering glass and concrete.
2 comments:
Hi. I like that you are starting to be a writer in English living in France. Are you taking part in a writing group? Real or virtual? Carry on, it’s good stuff. Lauren
Thank you Lauren. No writing group I'm afraid, I don't think I have the time or the will to conform.
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