Weighed down with guilt for actions not taken,
But all too easily imagined,
I was forced to take cover for three long hours
In a clump of trees, pistol held ready.
Forbidden to move I waited alone
For my mates to stop acting their silent roles.
The director was speaking his elegant Italian.
The gun got too heavy for my aching right hand.
Later, in the pub,
A ten pound note new to my pocket,
I watched the actors nursing their pints
While talking shop to fend off strangers.
Far far different from the part that she played
Of a pesky teen model with fake blonde hair
Ransacking a studio to get herself hired,
Jane Birkin sat quietly with her friends.
She seemed rock solid, at ease in her skin,
A young married mother, not yet twenty.
Sure footed she`d skipped on the top of a wall
That I, accident prone, was too scared to climb.
Time has passed on, too fast for the both of us.
I have spent this week mourning a lass unparalleled,
A Parisian icon, straight out of Chelsea,
Who combined French chic with Kings Road flair.
Now she has gone, taking a whole world with her,
A moment in time to which I belonged.
To step back only leads to blocked off pathways
That fall away once dreams depart.
No, I do not cry for what I have lost;
I cry for a girl who can sing no more.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
19th. - 20th. - 21st. July 2023.
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