From the painting by Claude Monet
Look closely, and you’ll see sand in the paint
from the beach at Trouville, where I sat
with Camille that summer. From this, you would
hardly guess that war was coming; that Prussia
had lured us in; that the clouds were not clouds,
but the report of cannon fire. Our flags would never
fly so proud again. Still, give us enough sunshine,
and we will forget the world. On the promenade,
one can hide from history beneath a parasol.
But we cannot run from fate, just as we cannot
escape our shadows. The slats of the boardwalk,
hot beneath our feet, were the duckboards
of future wars, the red boats on the waves,
blood spilling on the green fields at Mars-la-Tour.
