You were saying something about France
It doesn't surprise you to hear the opening
bars of a symphony, but you don't expect
birdsong through the rain, and it has rained
so long you have forgotten how cellos call
to mind old friends, cities you once walked
through till dawn, and a favourite sandwich
filling you haven't eaten since before you
knew the names of birds and symphonies.
An occuptional hazard hailed the article
you were reading in the library with some
dead painter on the cover, another day of
rain, the day we met, I seem to remember.