It was one of those late May days when blue warm skies are expected but do not arrive and winters dour sister stares one blankly in the face

 

In the background my television was telling me that a serial killer had struck again and had killed another serial killer who had in turn been a serial killer of serial killers

 

The news confuses me so much these days

 

I was writing a poem which I was going to call Pulp Marie

 

But I have changed my mind and am going to call it

 

The Apathy of Saints

 

In a month or so we will be in the South of France

 

We visited this region last year

 

It was very hot

 

I like hard travelling and so does my wife

 

After a shower we often walk around the apartment naked and watch French television

 

The air does not cool until well after dark but by then we are both asleep

 

We will discuss our dreams over breakfast

 

As I watch the grey people lead their grey lives I feel a concern for the grey-green leaves that clothe the summer trees

 

I worry for their mental health

 

They were born into a world of promise but it has now darkened dull

 

Will the warm breezes ever materialise

 

Will the high sun ever return from its exile

 

I am planning to take my wife to Nimes and the Pont Du Gard

 

Perhaps we will paddle in the river as the southern days are always hot

 

Or we might stop for a while on the bridge and drink chilled water

 

When you are not looking I will follow a bead of sweat as it descends erratically from your swan neck into the valley of your breasts

 

You will scold me and tell me that that you are not sweating and that the bead of sweat was a drop of spring water escaped

 

For a while I will say nothing but as we walk along the riverside path I will inform you that I am changing the title of this poem back to the original

 

This poem will be known as Pulp Marie

 

You will ask me why I have called it Pulp Marie

 

I will reply that I had no reason to call it Pulp Marie