Parisian Sketch

The moon was shedding her plates of zinc

In obtuse angles.

The plumes of smoke like ‘fives’ distinct

Rose thick and black from high roof-tangles.

The sky was grey, there wept a breeze

Like a bassoon.

Far off, a tom-cat, stealthy, discreet,

Miaowed, oh, strangely out of tune.

I walked, of divine Plato dreaming

And of Phidias,

Salamis, Marathon, under twinkling

Eyes, eyes of blue jets of gas.

-o0o-