Something pounds the cottage door at 3am.
We stagger down, you in your towel dressing gown,
me a few paces back, clutching a poker.
'Hello?' you call.
French wind soughs through the drenched forest.
A familiar laugh.
A brass key fumble later and in he crashes:
'Ha ha! Salut! Salut!
Garlic flans for all!'
his arms heavy with pie dishes.
'Bill? What the hell are you doing here?
How did you find-' but already
he's bustling in, pouring himself a sherry
and firing up the wood stove.
'Et pour madame...' he bows obsequiously,
then pretends to whip a nosegay
of paper flowers from his derriere,
and you - you silently, wonderfully,
begin to weep.
No comments:
Post a Comment