XII.
(Antibes: Le plage)
Pebbles on the beach never sparkle so brilliant
As they do in the Summer Sun.
Slim red stones with white fingers---
Souvenirs
Whose shine will never mesmerize as now.
A jet roars over the Alps of the High Provence,
Fishers pull their lines,
Children tousle and play.
Nice and Monaco are white slabs in the mist
Dark mountain yonder is Italy.
An African vends his colorful wares on the beach,
Fire is set and grill made ready for supper,
Little boy reels madly
He has a big one hooked.
Like a figure in a painting
Amidst the surf splattered rock
Raising his fishing pole
Twice his height,
Lifting well above his head
Letting loose the line into the blue blue sea.
As the sun sets over Antibes.
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