Day 6: For Auld Lang Syne

Montmartre, after midnight,
in the very depth of winter,
under the host of her Cœur
in candlelight as black boa
feathers teased keys on pianos
and bowls of French onion soup.

In a gypsy skirt, she twirled
her midlife around the 25^th,
familiar threads of childhood,
like the first snows falling,
decorate steps of the Élysée.

Moments are thus sealed;
making mangers into magic.

On a market morning, pre-
feasting, stuffing red noses
into picks of ripe pineapples,
in gloved hands December’s
icicles thought to be trees.

In Le Train of many more
colours than just Bleu, chefs
at side tables flambé Suzette
till sugar runs liquid across
the stationed tongue of Lyon
that we’d mistaken to be l’Est.

Snowflakes, catching flight
on the staircases of interior
courtyards, with its Romeos
on balconies and holly berries
trailing, in a former factory.

Aotearoa on périphérique
of Paris, gifting out parcels
to Lusk girl, no longer local.

Montmartre, after midnight,
child born to be King and we,
under the giggle of cocktail,
whisper au revoir to the new
friends found as snow melts.

Never the same flake. Flame.
Moment. We cannot go back
and equally, can never let go.

Damien B Donnelly needs no introduction from me. Poet, podcaster, consummate host and supporter of poets and poetry, you can find him here:

Websitehttps://eatthestorms.com/
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/eatthestorms/?hl=en
Podcasthttps://open.spotify.com/show/0mOECCAcx0kMXg25S0aywi?si=ttUYKsf9TX-WaeitLg6hpA
Email eatthestorms@yahoo.com

Eat the Storms is available from the Hedgehog Press, or Damien’s own website – and new publications are on the way.