Alea Jacta Est
We never could get on. This was the last
of our attempts to find the golden mean.
We'd come here to the South of France, with wives,
a summer holiday of mending fences,
two colleagues seeking ways to rub along.
In Antibes (or in Aix - I don't recall),
as we were strolling down some tree-lined street,
I noticed an hotel. So very French.
Neat wooden shutters, graceful balcony.
The plaque above the threshold caught my eye:
"Here, on this very balcony, the great
Napoleon, escaped from Elba, made
an inspired speech. His fortunes at low ebb,
and hunted by his foreign enemies,
he spoke to France, and France took up his call.
His former soldiers, sent to capture him,
threw down their arms and wept. So Bonaparte,
here on this spot, resolved to fight again,
and see what kind of mistress Fate might prove."
Here. On this spot. A bankrupt, beaten man,
that Spring of eighteen fifteen, chose to roll
the dice again, to shape Earth's destiny.
I heard "Vive l'Empereur!" I felt the drums!
"You're so insensitive!" an English cry
thrust through my daydream like a metal spike.
McGill was pointing to a motor-bike.
"You walked right past this awesome piece of kit,
And didn't even notice!" That was it.
The die was cast. For good or ill, I knew
my fate lay elsewhere. This was Waterloo.
All hope of reconciliation gone,
McGill and I had crossed our Rubicon.
Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2025
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