In the garden of the great Square
the sun has been called to duty,
and the lime trees dress
to their cool attention,
their shade in meticulous ranks;
a fuss of pigeons in the leaves
whinges a gallic monotony.
Hushed joggers puff their discretion
in obedient lines,
and the German ladies
impose their Kaiser bulk
onto the graceful belligerence
that is Tai Chi.
A Vespa, with its coarse brass voice,
falters for an instant,
a dying moment
in the breath of its gear change,
a petit mort.
In an early promenade
Grandmere pouches songs and astonishments
for a sleepy pram;
Granpere trails behind
as silent as the Somme.
Some of the mansions squint
in the morning sun.
If they were not cast
in meticulous brick
they might be tempted to
nod a small acknowledgement
across the way
to the mirror of themselves.