I stroll along the Seine towards the hotel,

way lit by gibbous moon cross

hatched by vapour trails.

Fellow night walkers

(I had not thought death had undone so many)

throw out snatches of different tongues,

counterpoint ebbing and

flowing like the ghost of a fugue.

Morning, Jardin du Luxembourg.

Air icy, sky blank, trees leafless, gravel crunch,

central fountain playing like a distant carillon,

frozen figures historical mythological

threatening to tinkle into pieces.

A stringless marrionette crosses

my path, lost Pierrot, prelude to sudden

appearance of a crowd of tourists:

sforzando of colour

igniting bleak landscape.