Poetry: Night Magic


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