He invites her, waits on that wood-drawn seat
under their pink floral trees, ancient lamp
and chilly, newspaper air. Il fait doux, so
he leaves his coat thrown over the bench
and greying night leaves milky light
in sheltered wreaths of black-and-white.
The hazy sands in clouded streets trail
their paths for her stilted feet. Her stride
increased and paced for the Champs-Elysées.
She feels the heat. Pleated skirt at her knees,
so unlike her usual things. She wears a blouse,
chemisier; smiles her way, brilliantly. Teeth
white against a red lip and Cleopatra eyes.
Beautiful lies over journeyed lands reveal this
rising evening romance. Her heaving sands,
sunset streets, the lamp still lit, straight shoulders,
sweet golden-grey swaying Cleopatra eyes
realise le beau soleil and carry her to Paris.
Maeve Moran is an Irish student currently studying English Literature and Education Studies at Durham University. Maeve is absolutely fascinated by language and words and voice and uses poetry to explain the things she simply cannot express properly any other way.