This one is not so Grand
as its river, no Seine
cutting at its heart
or couples arm-in-arm
amid je t’aime.
We can see
the eroding townscape
from this crowded
rooftop bistro,
and there’s a soufflé
on the menu you’d like to try,
while I scan the varied wine list
for Château Valfontaine.
We made a hard, last-minute
left off the 403, figured
Brantford would be dull,
there’s only so much
Bell and Gretzky
we can digest, yet again.
And substituting for a tower?
There’s the truss bridge
serving the railway
that traverses the muddy banks,
its lattice now a respite
for a dozen, migrating flocks,
and, upon which, the locals say,
some have confessed their love;
plunged down in ultime liberté.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image