Crue De La Seine 28 Janvier 1910
The river rising through the old quarries, the underground galleries of golden limestone, signs of the flood on our pediments.
A bend in the river, and now the water’s too slow, with all these islands, with all these bridges, and so it rises; its dirty line stains us
(around every river is an unseen river)
breaking free, breaking out of its walls, its channels broken
You: We’ll be safe on the third floor but I’m not so sure, no I’m not so sure
The cries of the flower sellers beneath the horse chestnuts and the white lilac forced. It should not be white. It should be, well, lilac. It should be, well, lilac
and also peonies, the right colour peonies, and also violets
in the park that man picked a pigeon up, and cuddled and stroked it, his bed rolled behind him, that man picked a pigeon up –
these glaces like flowers, each petal moulded with that strange little implement, half knife and half spoon – au chocolat, à la fraise, à la menthe –
by the Tuileries path, a garden disappearing; two box hedges, spiralling, the height of the hedges and the flowers diminishing until both descend souterrain as if into the underworld. Do you see? How clever whoever designed it,
how terribly
terribly
clever
and the room like an eye, all curves and water, silver and grey, grey and silver, the band of water and the floating flowers and the shadows of the trees and the light sent back so you’ve no idea what’s beneath it, that dark grey water
and you feeding crumbs to sparrows which rested on your hand, and the man dressed in green, Granny Smith top hat and lichen shirt and grass green waistcoat, machalite trousers and moss green shoes and chestnut cane with a bright gold top; did you see the man dressed in green?
Upstairs, the red curtains (I laughed when first I saw them) don’t seem so funny, no, they don’t seem so funny. In the stone sink, I put wine in to cool and then sit by the window and look down on top hats, the careful, circular nap of their crowns so many universes, so many black holes
Where are you?
Never here when you’re needed
never here when you’re needed
Emma Timpany is from Dunedin, New Zealand but currently lives in Cornwall. Her previous publications are the short story collections Over The Dam (Red Squirrel Press) and The Lost Of Syros (Cultured Llama Press). https://emmatimpany.wordpress.com/