AnElephantCant stand loud noises
He even has a quite quiet and hushful trumpet
There is no standing ovation
When to his great consternation
The giraffe next door acquires a drum kit
A Quiet Town
The fountain under the lights reflects the blue, white and red of the French Tricolour.
Children circle on their bikes.
One is very young, a beginner, with Papa puffing behind, holding the saddle.
It is late December, but the weather is very mild, even at 6 pm.
The little town is quiet, some might say dead, but he loves the tranquility.
He smiles at the family activity, the laughing youngsters, the patient parents.
Otis Redding sings to him about the pain in his heart.
He is vaguely aware that his hand is wafting pointlessly to the sound of the brass backing, as he gnaws unthinkingly on his baguette.
He thinks of a woman, far away, and wonders if she will visit him soon.
He is unperturbed.
The pace of life here suits him, relaxes him, frees his mind to write constantly.
He can wait.
bring a life of peace