A Back Road Near Calais, 1961
A Back Road Near Calais, 1961
The phonograph, did it have a fleur-de-lys funnel?
And the dancers, at least two couples, right?
The men with ripe bellies and suspenders,
The women Piaf-tiny or robust in gingham.
We slowed into the memory, they skipped
Off the macadam, one of them – a man? –
Scooping up the record player. Or was it still
Turning its disc and playing as we rolled by?
Didn’t they flash the V for Victory we’d seen
Everywhere we drove that summer in France,
Both for our GB plate and the last war
And the Ecosse plate and the Old Alliance?
Or did they ignore us, continuing to dance?
Our parents, too old to remember now, can’t say
But my sister and I, children then still ask.
Why did we pretend we weren’t Americans?
