Paris in the morning is silent. The cobbled streets are washed away, water & soap, to erase any trace of victory. It does not matter, victory is forever engraved in hearts & minds.
I left home years ago, took a ferry south from Dover to Calais, ended up in Paris doing some thinking and some writing. The warmer weather suited me well. I could let dry my sweater,
Whilst waiting for the teakettle to whistle, doodles overwrite themselves, pitch black, on grainy surface of white paper. Maze of twists and turns, round and elliptical,
Almost sleepy, eyes nearly shut, you hear the water falling. The wind blows too, the sun is coming down in infinity, to repeat the cycle. Little pond of pebbles,