Christmas Day in Rothéneuf
St. Malo played dead with its eyes tight shut,
Lying low under loud siege from a sea
Whose sullen picket had been stirred to militance
By a force ten agent provocateur.
Mad English. We walked the Emerald Coast
In time to our own music; suck and plop
Of sensible footwear, underlining
The rhythmic rough breathing of the Gore-Tex.
And in Rothéneuf, the patisserie. Open.
Not just for bread with its cold overtones
Of transubstantiation. Alongside
Lay a display of tempting specialities.
They had risen early to greet the Christchild
With the best that a baker had to offer,
Their selling of such indulgences pardoned
By the wicked permissiveness of birthdays.
We bought likewise; one of these, one of those,
Some of all of it, almonds, sugar, cream…
We took our treasure down to the wild beach,
Seeking a place away from the storm’s bravado.
Under an upturned boat, huddled like monkeys,
We had a party for the Birthday Boy
And while we licked delight from sticky fingers,
Thin flakes of pastry, winnowed by the wind
Went merrily to heaven - the angels’ share.
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