I love France.
Always have.
I’ve been there many times. In fact, I’ve a hankering to go there right now.
But my memories will have to suffice.
This is a poem I wrote in Antibes.
I was sitting on a terrace by the sea, nibbling on a Nicoise salad, when I noticed a woman and her son at a table nearby.
UNDERCURRENTS.
© David Milligan-Croft.
‘Certainement, mon cherie,’ she said
To her son, who asked for a crust of baguette.
Occasionally, she would press her face
Against his cheek and kiss his salty skin,
Or rub her fingers through his brown, tousled hair.
And when he didn’t return
From his after-lunch swim,
She stood gracefully, adjusted the hem
Of her black, linen dress, and strolled across the terrace
To the water’s edge.
Shielding her eyes,
Like a salute to the sun,
She gazed out across the coruscating bay.
Then she waved,
Returned to her seat,
Hiding a mother’s concern
Behind tortoiseshell sunglasses.
David Milligan-Croft
