Augustus Young       light verse, poetry and prose
a webzine of new and unpublished work

The Wooing 

(From Things that Happen while Reading Rilke)

 I’m sitting on the bench in my jardin sauvage reading the fait divers column of Le Journal, when I hear the sound of kissing. It is coming from the building across the road, the third floor. I thought it might be a turtledove. But no. A plump little woman in a flouncy dressing-gown  leaning over the balcony is moue-moue-ing me shamelessly. Three little kisses followed by a prolonged loud one. I am distracted from a report of a mother of three in Toulouse who committed suicide by climbing into her deep-freeze. My soupirent is of a certain age. As I am, I suppose, and I’m taken aback when without any encouragement she starts the kissing cycle again. Rather than butterflying a response I decide to make myself  scarce. And, getting up, I notice that the marmalade tom-cat, that everybody thinks is cute, but I know better, has settled under my seat. He is unmoved.