The upwards pull of reeded sounds
decorate the air with a metallic banjo jam.
Paris.
Bridged and bustling.
A mix of ghosts’ histories hidden – in between the mortar of rough stone and stained glass –
and modern industry: cold, necessary, buzzing.
At last light, the steepled wooden stalls glow.
Rounded, yellowed bulbs and artisans’ goods and fares catch and cast.
A lettered charm, beaded bracelet,
and soft scarves to stave away darkness’ chill.
Warmer yet: vin chaud.
In the wakefulness, queued with hands in knitted gloves
and the crinkle of wrappings, warm,
around a morning delight: pan au chocalat.
Sensual stone carvings under glass ceilings, inside.
Benches offer sights of water lilies and brush-stroked rooftops from wall to wall.
Would it be complete without the tower’s sparkle,
an awe-inspired dance, lighting both the blackened sky
and the waters of the Trocadero Gardens?
