Her scent is lilac and musk
and as purposefully lingering
as a Parisian city on display.
Hers is a happy soul,
an English waltz in a world of entangled Frenchness
which goes no further than a simple love of dance
led away from all the rumbas of despair.
As clouds diminish over Montmartre
she does not struggle with the stars
that perform for shadows of lightning
and echoes of thundered applause.
It is enough, she thinks, to simply play.