Leaving a moribund behind - Anders Villani

Leaving a moribund behind by Anders Villani (22)Now turbid cooling towers and cliff-topchateaus flash by, now gluts of steamscud over my windscreen; the stone villas andbicycles, the rusted ships reposing in the yard,the fog in the foothills of Le Mugel –edifices called from screaming silence.Call me the lap of waves, you once said,but not on the sea, on the Seine; or a pairof watchful eyes adrift; your French namesounded awful in Englishso I called you nothing, only watchedas the hyacinths left your trembling brush.When I left Paris your braids were blackand thinning, your skinlike a phosphorescent reef;the marzipan flowers you made for meleft too close to the kiln and wrecked,I could see every vein on your wilting hands.And I see death now from my empty courtyard;central port abuzz with old men marksthe return of the boats to the south; makeshiftstalls erected, fillet knives put to steel, and perfectsharks passed astern by burnt fishermangasp their final gasps, while the rusty outboards putter.