Ghosts of France
One month in May, I journeyed far,
winged through the sky t’wards Eastern star,
to land upon the Charles de Gaulle,
grand port of ile de France’s sprawl,
live city where studied Renoir.
A taxi to a ville by car,
this ville oh Vesinet not far,
walked round the ibis lake to loll,
one month in May.
Then back to gates of iron bar,
round homes of which it seems there are,
the old grey ghosts of France in all.
They walk baguettes down lonely hall,
the men in black, women in shawl,
one month in May.
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