We walked the confessors’ ground, 
she and I. The sun darted through 
the trees like shafts of arrows. 
It was hot and it was harrowing.
 

We strolled along boulevards of the 
departed. In passing, we inspected 
the memorials, which stood to attention, 
like soldiers of stone. 

We stood, in quiet contemplation, 
by Carmen’s creator. 
But I couldn’t, Jim, see 
any toreadors waltzing. 

We came by a wall, 
where the Communards 
were murdered, Jim, as they, 
themselves murdered. 

We walked on, 
as the boulevards narrowed 
into avenues and then into alleys. 
Beads of liquid dripped from me 
like tears of affectation. 

We stopped, in musical 
reflection, chez Edith. 
She sang, Jim ,"La vie en Rose", 
et maintenant, dans la mort repose. 

We smiled, in quiet amusement, 
at a Wilde Irishman. 
Is it Oscar, Jim, who sleeps, 
or is it Dorian Grey?. 

It was you Jim, we came to see, 
We followed trodden 
tracks and turned countless corners, 
until, at last, here you are Jim. 

Close by, iconoclasts dance like manic marionettes, 
and she picks at a thread from her blouse. 

We stood, reverently, Jim, 
whilst a woman in pink, 
with head bowed, meditated. 
Beads of liquid, dripped from her, 
like tears of appreciation. 

Is she a Rider, Jim, on the storm of temptation, 
or, a Killer, Jim, on the road of life? 

It was you,  Jim, I came to see. Is it hot and harrowing 
where you are, or do the cartilaginous fingers 
of death clutch at your soul? 

It was you Jim, I came to see, but, 
you are bones, whilst I am flesh. 

It was you Jim, I came to see, for, 
you will be remembered, 
whilst I am just en passant. 
 

©Tanith McKlane