We strolled into the Belle Époque salon
Where tapered columns of black and gold,
Blended with evasive light to provide
A veneer for strained faces with worse odds,
Washing down the bitter remnants of luck
With gin and unrestorative tonic.
We sipped, grew restless, then emerged like moths
To a thunderstorm, dancing hand-in-hand
Across glass stones to a shadowy spot
Under tiled eaves. There we lit cigarettes,
Exhaled as the green sweep of the lighthouse
Flashed across our faces, while hungry rain
Devoured our smoke and the cool night magic
Moved us to find warmth in a long, deep kiss.
Photo: Biarritz by Night by Chris Eden