Monday, March 12, 2018
The Paris End of '62 by Geoff Page
The Paris End of '62
In Armidale at Tatts Hotel
the Ladies Lounge
became a bistro - but that was not
a word they knew.
The 'continental' had arrived,
a sharp, up-country coup.
The tablecloths were
and muzak with accordions
seduced the knowing few.
We smelt the mist across the cobbles
from some romantic rue -
outside all up Beardy Street
it was our winter too.
The bread was long and thin and sliced
precisely on the skew
but memories of that meal from here
are curiously few,
chicken in the basket, maybe ...
a three-day-old ragout?
It could have been a Steak Diane
or Steak Die Anne for two.
There might have been a beaujolais
or Mudgee red for all we knew.
The philistines still stuck to beer.
The girl, or my companions, who
that night mixed up their verb or two
have slipped successively from view -
the decor and the day survive them.
It would have been around then too
I somewhat existentially discerned
the guy I'd always rhymed with Seamus
should really be Camus.