In the Aux Trois Quartiers
She fingered scarves and laces,
Smiling at some secret joke
As shoppers sidled past
In the heat and boulevard noise
Of a Paris afternoon.
What she thought of then,
Before returning home
To her Autumn Sonata
And her mother tongue,
She may have never told,
Forgot as soon as thought.
But Play it again she said,
And images of her youth
And breath of Roman scandal
Mingle with the Paris heat,
The lines around her eyes,
Her days on borrowed time.
The memory of her grace
The enigma of that smile,
Of this woman I esteem
What is it they redeem?
©Terry Hodgson2020
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