Montmartre Poem by Matt Mooney

By metro to the ancient Montmartre hills
Where windmills once steadily turned
To mill the grain and to crush the grape;
Artists who adorn this place with art
Will paint you there in La Place du Tertre.

Inside the dimly lit Salle de Saint Pierre
I saw an enthralling expo of ancient dolls:
Elegant ones made in La Belle Epoque
Then some primitive poupées from Peru;
Pins in old African ones to work voodoo.

The snow melts slow and so silently falls
Off a tree that's high in the sloping green
And I take one more cup of café au lait-
Drinking to the pearl of Paris out there,
The jewel on the crown-the Sacre Coeur;
Three rising, winding Byzantine domes
All in white, this grand landmark in stone:
Basilica of all travellers and pilgrims true,
Capped by The Cross up high in the blue.

Another day over, the cafes are closing:
Candles on tables for two are blown out-
The secrets of love on faces were seen;
Banter of people now out on the streets-
Glowing from wine and of being together:
So happy and merry in twos and in fours,
Fixing of scarves and tumbling out doors.



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