Derek Adams (London, UK): Two Poems


This is not the bright shiny gold
of the High
Street jewellers
but the deep yellow gold
of a late summer's afternoon,
of sand and tanned skin,
of ripe wheat waving in the wind
and the wave of your hair,
of the buttercup reflected under your chin,
of skate meuniere
and sweet Sauternes wine,
of a single malt nightcap
and a yellow bedspread,
of fresh orange juice
and toast spread with honey,
of the morning sunlight shining
through the down on your thigh.


12:04 am-- the floodlights
of Sacre Coeur have just died.
Tourists are still being drawn
by the pavement artists
in the Place du Tertre.

Just around the corner,
a boy perches on a low wall
his back to the city.
Her back to him; on his lap,
a girl, legs astride his.

Her right hand pushes
a short denim skirt
down between white legs.
Her left hand bunches
pale blue knickers into a ball.

She is a metronome,
keeping time
with African rhythms
that rise on air
sweet with Moroccan Black

from the tiered gardens
next to the funiculaire,
where a group of young Algerians
beat painted derbouka
gripped between their knees.

Beyond the couple, against the dark
the lights of the city
wink through traffic fumes,
the Eiffel tower
so small it would fit on a key ring.