An Hour Or So
How predictable you are, early winter rain. And how swiftly you cast a vast blanket of poignancy, mist and biting chill onto this entire city.
The arrondissements are swept up in the heady existence of their own beauty, as life plays out to the distinctive notes of hope laced with sorrow.
Here in the Latin Quarter, whiling some time on Le Petiti Chatelet's porch, I look out at a Seine quite disinterested in this whole affair of life, as it were. It flows, and no more.
The clock on the north-east corner of the Palais de Justice facade clears its throat. Chime, I whisper, chime, you fool. Chime away with that fleur de lys that graces your tip.
Because soon she will be here. And arm in arm we'll dance, later tonight, in the wild beauty of the Bataclan.
If you would only...