Her tea shop offers the finest loose leaves bundled in worldly weighs. Madame Emille, I believe was her name, also owned an exquisite chocolate shop in a well-trodden alley. Vivid silver threads fizzled through her course black hair and bare feet peeked out of a floor-length red dress. I never met her, but the smoky vision of the Madame has always filled my craving.
She’s a runner who sees gaps to steal away for herself. Guilt-free, she dances against the pavement. She plays hopscotch with a line and then takes a bow to an imagined audience.
Where did these images come from? These floating ephemeral fairies that beguile the most absent-minded fool. A pile of rubbish, dry and ready for a spark, these dream-entangled images are not to be made of sense.
J.L.
Going On 40 