Nice, France, 2016

 

Pond life stirs amongst the smooth grey stones-

A gentrified sweat in the gold July sun.

In parasol niches, the flesh on rich, white bones

Bake slowly, to the colours of distilled rums.

 

Under the big, blue sky cyclists crawl the promenade,

Next to dung beetle traffic on a Thursday afternoon.

Topless, tattooed skaters put on a big charade,

And the long-legged tourists’ doe-eyes swoon.

 

Jazz yawns out from the sleepy mouths of cafes,

Man and wife sip dainty, fine coffee from the cups,

Amongst bored lives jabbering, on travel and grades,

Mortgages, promotions, how to get on up.

 

While below, their little pups of offspring kick the placid waves,

And bounce away in glee to escape the listless push,

As the ocean feigns a four-second rave.

Retreats. Knocks back pebbles with insipid hush.

 

On the bleached, white loungers, four bug-eyes are scanning

All the new thoughts that they are being fed.

One old man perching, a veiny arm fanning,

When Youth drinks Lust and drags his head,

 

As he points across to two strange insects,

Who push out their fronts, bend their rears, coil and pout.

Painted nails straddle a 5-inch screen,

Beauties- Hashtag- Beach- Hashtag. Send it out.

 

Pond life stirs amongst the smooth, grey stones,

And sunglasses are averted, on the strollers overhead,

As Anger goes bowling, down the promenade,

86 scored. 400 puddles red.

 

In the blackening sky, a fading July sun,

Goes down on the bodies that lounge beneath the tree.

The screams join in with the rumbustious jazz,

And the sea. And the sea. And the sea.