Françoise Hardy

by JP Davies

Françoise Hardy trills
‘Le Temps de L’amour’

as the city draws back
Sunday morning sheets;

we slug galoise-scented coffee
and remember the night:

crates of wine, music
in the Marais bookshop;

the Dutchman waltzing
a plastic rose seller,

pronouncing us man and wife
with a jasmine ring.

At Longchamp you took a chance
on Molly Malone, my outsider love,

trouncing all at twelve-to-one;
losing bets fluttering like confetti.

Hurtling below the city,
our reflection captured in Metro windows.

In Père Lachaise, Oscar Wilde’s bones
moulder improbably.

Our shadow shifts on the balcony;
a wine bottle continues to pour.

In a darkening chamber the stylus settles,
Francois Hardy sings ‘Le Temps de L’amour.’