Fleur de Lis
Reminiscing of bygone days and travels
A tattered French flag fluttered in the breeze,
a ring with the fleur-de-lis,
joined by a diagram of danger,
some stand firm; whilst weaker one’s flee.
The pawns are war torn, and on Sunday mourn,
the rooks ride erratic paths,
Fleur the Bishops give lip to the castles,
the King and Queen languish in Roman baths.
Out near Versailles, the tattered flag flies,
above a tent that’s dismantled by flight,
by the light of the moon and a long night of ruin,
we squirm up close in delight.
The snows on the ground, there’s hardly a sound
and we slide, in subliminal moves,
drips from the trees on the first morning breeze,
is the snow melting from nearby roofs.
We fight out of the night and despite the light,
stand at the crossroads at dawn,
I roll up the tent, no need to pay rent,
and we walk on with a sniffle and yawn.
Coffee and cognac and Gauloises,
then warm bread and slabs of white cheese,
temporary relief in a misplaced belief,
we could warm up and wouldn’t freeze.
Back to Calais in a night and a day,
then adieu on a ferry back home,
no time to find peace in warm Golden Fleece,
only a photo in Kodachrome.
A tattered French flag fluttered in the breeze,
as I headed north over the border,
a backpack flag and fraught memory,
not particularly placed in that order.
©
David Rudder
26th October 2020
Thanks for reading.
