1. Summer 1954

i.m. Ray Kinross

Let Saint-Malo put its golden self together
where you came a purler on the tramlines,
ravaged France crawl towards and past us.
Windily we head-butt wounded ghosts
down gritty avenues of dust and poplar,
swung valleys, cluttered by old stone:

Tenteniac, Chinon, Langeais, Saint Mars,
Rigny Ussé, Angers, Orlèans…
In a rowdy bar in a particular nowhere
Michelle’s blonde hair teases to smoke,
as she waves back into our futures
becomes kisses on a Carte Postale.

Montsoreau’s fishermen can only see
long wands tapering out of time,
...