Le Cannet

We stayed in Le Cannet, that little red town in the south of France. And you spent your time there reading by the window. I wanted to prize that novel from your blue hands but in Marie Marais you lived a full life – and it was beautiful. I watched night and day as you lost yourself in Haggard’s words and when you finally closed that book I returned it to your hands.

The day you died; it was raining. I watched and waved goodbye from the hills of England. And as you drifted into peace like a boat on the stream, I knew you were going to the Riviera. And now, when they ask me about you, I say: “She has gone to Le Cannet. You will find her by the window with a copy of Marie Marais in her hands and flowers in her hair.”