The Grand Dame of French Literature :
A Visit
In 1948, the morning mist had
lifted up its brow..
And now…there was a golden glow
upon the window of her home
in Rue de Beaujolais.
Cocteau and Capote, entered in….
Crowned by her lion’s mane of hair,
Colette was writing in her bed..
A phone…a lamp, pale roses… and
One hundred paperweights
placed on a buffet stand.
Entombed within those glassy spheres
were….lizards…. salamanders … shells,
And Millefiori sparkling with
Exotic cosmic dreams..
She said….
Snow Globe is ‘tres jolie!’
Snowflakes drift down so magically,
and that evokes the child in me…
I become the dreamy girl, I used to be.
Yet…Paper always blows away…
No paperweights can alter nature’s play…
Or battle with life’s brevity…
A smitten young Capote gazed.
She handed him a pure white rose,
Time is a mystery….she said.
And all is temporary..
The sun was setting now…
And with an au revoir … they bowed,
and left her in her writing room,
in Rue de Beaujolais.
Kristine Byrne. 27th Oct. 2020
Photo based on the Original by
David E. Scherman