It’s different on holiday: patchwork of quaint cobbles,
colours of Monet’s Garden, framed by sun.
You don’t notice grey flowers, slipping on wet stone.
Four years there; she swirls the city’s vowels
round her mouth like vin rouge but can’t roll them out right,
any more than she can roll a Rizla.
Instead, she puffs a thin Gitane, tries to look chic
as she sips café noir on the brasserie pavement splashed
by a culture she can only borrow.
(From ’Into the Yell’, Circaidy Gregory Press 2010)