Vieux Nice

Friday Evening

Darkening shadows lie along the ochre lanes of ancient Nice,
and children fool in evening light with two wheeled toys
that rattle down the stone stepped street
to shuttered shops and wakening bars,
where older youth begin to meet outside and greet
their friends with cheerful shouts and mocking phrase,
at tables cluttering the way; where posters greet
with ‘plat du Jour’ or ‘menu fixe’
And try to tempt us in to eat.

Saturday Morning

Then in the morning whilst there’s silence all around,
The water cannon gone, the street washed clean;
A cooing dove the only sound,
Those Friday revellers become a dream.
The boulangere already plies her trade
With croissants, tartes and boules de pain,
Baguettes, ficelles, all freshly made.
We must decide as best we can the treat to choose,
And then return to coffee, croissants and the morning news.

And so it is; the wild adventure of an unknown place
Becomes in little time the routine of one’s daily life.
The interest in the oddities of every race
Become accepted habit in the daily grind.
As we adapt to new environments and to other climes,
we merge unconsciously with different worlds and different times.

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