Waiting for Maxim . . .
There’s a roman statue in the garden
steps sweeping down to a dewy lawn
tables, napkin-laid for tea
and I am waiting for Maxim de Winter…
We would never have stayed in this place.
Haversacked and anoraked,
peering over the wooden palings
unkempt windswept back packers
noses pressed to the sweetshop window.
Now here I am again, wondering
how would it be having cocktails
in that sedate conservatory?
Cut glass, a pink bud blushing in a vase
waiting for Maxim de Winter…
Yet I know I would rather be with you
outside, perched on a misty rock
at end of day
with flask and sandwiches for two.
shadwell smith
Wed 6th Jun 2012 13:25
You're welcome to it.