From gnarled rods, centuries old,
spring-green curtains trail their hems
in the Seine. Bateaux-mouches skim by,
fly-eyes bulging with wide-eyed travellers,
bit torrents streaming with the flow.

Lazy joggers taste a favourite ipod tune
while Figaro readers (far less likely
to experience cardiac failure) sip a café
and smoke a Gitane, ignoring a pending
liver problem. La Tour Eiffel

stretches in the afternoon sun, sighs
and resumes her sentry post, looking
down with wry amusement at armies
of swarming ants, intent only on nibbling
a piece of Gay Paree to march back

to home camp. joanie sits bare-armed against
the sun in spring, bag clutched tight against
invisible snatchers, while Pierre (or André
or Guillaume) strolls, thrutched up in winter
scarves, avec sa femme ou son tout petit chien.

Along the banks, in open squares, the easy
elegance of rollers complements the elegant
ease of Parisians at leisure. Pierre, doffing
his woollen burdens, joins them, arthritic joints
oiled by imagination, an old body liberated

by the infection of the season. Next week
the strong black coffee and cigarettes
will take their toll, but Pierre will rest
content; he has felt the rush of wind
on his face. Peace is pierced

by jolly jingles instantly quelled by bare-bellied
beauties (they think) or anxious mates away
from home, so calm soon rears its ugly head.
The cappuccino froth of contentment floats
in the air but this could never be Italy.

A single cigarette wafts spiralling smoke
on the breeze; a chic scarf winds itself
effortlessly around a long neck; a lunch-time carafe
of rosé sparkles its invitation to enjoy
Paris in April.