Sitting with my granddaughter staring at the English winter I gave a sigh.
All was damp, muted, sleeping shadowed grey.
Leafing through old photos I remembered a walk along the footpath at Cap d’Ail.
Then all was fierce light and shades of blue saturated.

And I recalled that Summer over fifty years ago.
Wanting that harpoon gun I could not afford to buy.
Diving deep into the bay with youth aglow.
And other eyes were blue too, I remembered with a sigh.

Ghosts of the great inhabit that footpath.
Here in opposition Churchill set up his easel for joy of painting.
The deep reds of the rocks, the lapping waves, healing all wrath.
Villas, gleaming white balconies, champagne beckoning.

So now my granddaughter and I attempted together our own daub.
Such happiness on that grey day, for a moment I was totally absorbed.