Where the plantations begin
The scent of the earth, the true-born.
A foot on the earth, your earth.
An electrified fence to keep the cows from straying.

A line of sanity
Or sanitation, the city limits once defined,
the streets washed in lime & lavender.
The balconies overflowing with roses.

The end of reason or the beginning
of purer emotions, the line
between fear and mobilised ambition.
But will an ocean protect us?

At the local fête I asked Sandy from Atlanta
why she came here. More relaxed she said,
good ideas appear more often.
No Trumpist here. Just us Democrats
making France great again (joke).
She and Honey had the paperwork in control.

And she convinced me as we queued
politely for our burger, the ‘European’ kind
which were better,
with their black buns real tomato sauce
and purple bull flesh.
They had a regional status, she said, so
French, everything
a bit raw, and fragrant, and safe to eat.