Paris, rue de la Chausée d’Antin
It was winter, very cold.
I was having a soirée,
my oyster-grey rooms
were dusted and swept,
fires lit, ices ordered.
Hothouse flowers spoke
of a climate unknown to me.
Outside, late afternoon light
was meagre, as frost-bitten
as any back-country lane.
I imagined frozen cattle,
liquid eyes fixing me
from across the street.
I close the shutters as guests
begin to arrive; they’ll expect
Liszt and I to duet, debate,
Schubert lieder and tea.
Seated by the fire, Madame Sand
is quiet, gazes into the flame,
only looks up and listens
when I begin (gone midnight)
to improvise. Before her eyes
a blind brother being buried
beneath a pear tree, a white horse
alone in a field at dusk,
the clamour of a city shut out
by ivy-high walls, the reflection
of a girl in a mirror in Spain.
She invites me to Palma,
calls my excuses lame.