On the shore, in France’s half-open fist
My grandparents built a white-walled house
Urged by the midday sun, the
Balcony’s terracotta tiles would
Scorch unassuming feet
But in the cool hush of early
Evening
You could sit on those dirty plastic chairs
And watch the ever moving
Wrinkles of the sea.
Separated from the house only by a lush stretch of
Bursting fruit trees, chalky paths.
Venture
Out to the beach and
Lay upon those silver sands pebbled by nude infants
And threadbare towels.
Breakfast was always a bit of stale
Baguette, seasoned with salted butter and
Apricot jam, sometimes if you got lucky
You could
Get half a passion fruit.
Under the watching sun
And chirping cicadas,
Under the heavy aroma
Of fig trees, under the sting of salt on sun crispened legs
Under the laughing voices of
Parisian tourists
Nestled beneath the vibrant constellations
Was
Me
