Coleton Fishacre

I might have met you there, windows for our back-drop,
a blood-orange sun, a burning sea, and me, 
making an entrance into Lady’s Dorothy’s saloon,
stepping down with care, scent in my hair- 
Je Reviens?
Je Reviens…And primroses-
Stolen from the garden?
Not stolen
Borrowed then? 
Yes, borrowed. Some pinned here, at my left hip,
piercing the eud-de- nil satin tracing my bones-
And flat chest?
Flat chest?
Wasn’t that the fashion? 
I suppose…Where was I? Oh yes,  slinking down the stair,
Al Bowlly on the gramophone ?
Yes…and hopes of shimmying later.
What song?
‘Love is the Greatest Thing.’
The rhythmical transfer of weight for love is surely the strangest thing?
La la, lalalala…

You’ve forgotten me!
No. I just hadn’t got to you…Black tie and sleeked-back hair.
Excellent. Cigarette box?
Of course. Slender… silver.
Monogrammed?
Of course…

Would you care for a cigarette?
I rather think I will.
Cocktail?
I rather think I will.
Pall Mall?
What’s in it?
Gin, Sweet Vermouth, Dry vermouth, White Crème de Menthe,
dash of Orange bitters, served with fresh mint. Shaken of course.
I’ll leave all that to you.
A wise decision. Shimmy?
I thought you’d never ask…don’t spoil my primroses.