La Boule D'Or

She remembers
moule in a sauce sublime,
langoustine, Soupe de Poisson,
a soupçon of indifferent wine.

Mornings with le petit déjeuner,
a confiture so sweet, café au lait.
A discreet knock on the door
the aroma of lying in love.

The Cathedral in Sainte Anne d'Auray
where bells sound in early filtered light,
the lover who held her
but his face now eludes her.
Ah, but she remembers

A baguette and a smooth paté
a bottle of rosé
that made her sleepy.
The music from the market
and the way the wind ruffled his hair

A lovers' tryst
but she is not triste
she can still smell the food
served at the hotel,
La Boule d'Or

Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 469 times
Written on 2014-01-26 at 12:47

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I have the vaguest recollections of a Hotel de Nice on Rue de St. Denis, but vivid images of every tryst. But this is such a beautiful poem. It confirms what I know about myself, the sensuous pleasure of palette eludes me.

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Wistful, richly sensual and very nice. Isn't it funny how we can remember a lot of things, but the faces always blur?

She must be careful or she will surpasse the "Boule D'Or stage, and become truly Rubaneaque! This is very interesting, in that it could be moved to a few different cities, thought not many, but none of them would be on my side of the Atlantic...(Well, maybe in quebec city, or Montreal, but it would be pushing it.
Hmmm... this lovely writing has made me hungry for something not in the fridge! :-)

It has been my (admittedly limited) experience that those who are passionate about food are also passionate about love, so attuned they are to all their senses, and food after all is about far more than just taste, but then I surely needn't say so to someone French.

Lol ... the food and the place sound wonderful. The lover? Well ... maybe forgettable now. A very enjoyable read and so visual.