It Rained 1973 Poem by Terry Collett

It rained after we left
the Musée d'Orsay
and Sonya and I
had to run for cover.

She looked beautiful
in the rain
(she looked
beautiful anyway) .

We stood underneath
a canvas covering
with others,
who also ran for shelter.

How romantic it looks
Paris in the rain,
she said.

I sensed the dampness
sinking through the cloth
of my jacket;
it didn't feel
romantic to me.

I've seen paintings
of Paris in the rain,
I said,
I remember seeing
this pavement artist
chalking a picture of Paris
and the rain came down
and he went
and the picture
became a murkiness
of colour.

The other people
spoke in French.

Nous sommes des touristes,
she said to them.

They nodded and smiled
and looked at me.

Maybe they thought
I looked like that guy
with a beard
in the Renoir painting,
I mused.

Sonya spoke
to them in French
and I watched
her talking;
the curve of her body,
her blonde hair
over her shoulders.

I wished
we were back
in the hotel
in the bed.

Let us go
have a coffee
some place,
she said.

The rain had paused,
so off we went
to find a small cafe;
another Parisian tour
and dull day.