The Montemarte cafe
Lone table sits
Half empty bottle
Glass to lift
Pensive caught
With outward stare
In this beautiful era
Of Paris to glare.
Its said that life
Hangs by silken strings
La Belle Epoque
As art it sings
Beneath the street lights
Love it swoons
Its beating heart
Its coloured moon.
Parisian sunlight
In morning seeps
To dusty floors
Its promise keeps
To begin again
A golden age
Prophet or god
Convention slain.