Nineteen sixty three, I’m fifteen.
We lay in the warm Paris Sun,
Watch svelte young people on the rings,
Turning somersaults in the air,
Cool jazz, sultry Francoise Hardy,
The sounds of Piscine Deligny.
I sip at cold rose d’anjou,
Beside me a stolen copy
Of Miller’s Tropic of Cancer,
I dream of future shiny, bright,
With all the other wild children,
Wide eyed ingenues, sped out mods,
Beatnik boys, hot coffee bar nights.
The sun beats down on Pont Neuf stairs
As I throw pigs feet bones in Seine.
Angel John drawing constantly,
Sketchbook full of Parisian girls.
One late night at Aux Trois Mailletz,
We watch as our cold beers turn warm,
Memphis Slim and Willie Dixon
Play Pigalle Love all night long.
John says Ich Bin Ein Berliner,
We say Nous Sommes Parisienne.

Harry Rogers: In Harriboy’s Hut, Aberbanc, 21st February 2017