The breeze blows a little cooler today
The weather programme talked of thunder
Yet the evening primrose opened her petals
Insects move workmanlike about the concrete flags
I forget that I am on holiday
That for today these words are not my work
That the birdsong
Is the echoed cry of a freedom already found
What is to become, who can say
Of my poetry, who would see, why he or she
Would dwell awhile, beside the Pampas Grass
And think of the Riviera, at home or abroad
To think of strolls along promenades
Or visits to the winter gardens
Or afternoons at the air shows
Balloons with passengers, and pink champagne
The hedgehog is back into hiding
It has had its three minutes of fame
Now time for the white crested blackbird
And another flower, also that I am unable to name
Only that is green and yellow and white
Impregnated garlands of crimson hanging claret
Such an endorsement of plumage
Which would look well on the dance-floor
I am reminded of Saturday nights
Of mohair suits and chisel toe shoes
Of warm night’s soft conversation before a pause
Before the applause of the cool morning breeze
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