Poem: 'Place de la République'

The early morning frost Is settling on leaves, cars, benches Three trails of airplane-smoke Shoot across the sky The smell of hot bread Wafts out from A forlorn boulangerie with its sad Christmas lights…

Streets freshly-washed and Still-lit by fading streetlamps, Shops with their shutters down And people asleep behind Barely-moving curtains In the non-wind of a crisp winter morning…

…I reach the metro stop.

A girl in fur boots Is smoking quietly, tapping her feet Patiently waiting for no one. On the platform A couple slow-waltzes in slow-motion Against the gaping black background of nothingness. In ‘4 minutes’ the train arrives Bearing its load of bodies half-asleep, haggard, from Saturday-night excesses. I climb in and melt into the faceless mass Farida Khanum croons throatily into my earphones As the train careens screechingly through the endless tunnels of a Sunday dawn.

I step out at République Pulling my cap closer around my head to shield against the cold. Two vagabonds running up the stairs, laughing, Turn around and give me a look. Walking out, a Chinese family With three squabbling children and a harrowed mother Are trying to make themselves understood at the guichet. I see a girl wearing pink lipstick, pink pants and a smile on her face heading hopefully for somewhere (someone?) with a spring in her step.

At the top of the stairs there is the pale daylight of a hesitant day The trails of smoke have thickened into wide streaks and Dame Republic, majestic as ever, has her back turned towards me; The shutters are being rolled up Cars roll groaningly by, And hints of smiles are appearing on people’s faces As Paris awakes.