Views From Montmartre Poem by C Richard Miles

I’ve seen the view from Sacre Coeur in every season now;
No matter how the city clothes herself in each disguise
But which is best vexes my mind, for each has charms, I vow,
To lend me, on my wanderings under Parisian skies.

Midwinter’s cloak of white adorns the roofscape with its snow
And lays a carpet up the slope, and softens steep, stone stairs
To match the blonde basilica, which gazes down below
To where pert, shivering Pigalle girls dare to display their wares.

But truer love now makes a stand, ’neath February’s stars
With valentines, with roses red, in gift shops by the score
And romance rules as candles light the restaurants and bars
And suitors seek expensive gifts in chic, designer stores.

White flooring is supplanted, by each bursting, bright spring flower
That trembles in the biting breeze: Brave crocuses as gay
As Gay Paree and tulips red augment, with Dutch-born dower,
The windmills of the Moulin Rouse, to bless each lengthening day.

When April’s showers send their silvery blessings with each drop
And Easter celebrations fill the nave of Notre Dame
Proud Paris looks its best, they say, but I’ll not ever stop
To pick that single season as the only one with charm.

As summer’s skies sweep, clear and blue, across each baking street,
Bright eyefuls of the Eiffel Tower appear upon my sight
And though the tourists sweat and flag, subservient to the heat,
I still take pleasure in the climb up to Montmartre’s height.

Then Bastille Day soon promenades with blue and red and white
Along the Champs Elysées, with the military parade
And streets are full with revelry as evening sunset’s light
Reflects upon swift-flowing Seine, where barges ply their trade.

As autumn’s artist paints his scenes with palette, gilt with gold
The richest colours steal the show with ambers, russets, reds
But those with easels in the square now shelter from the cold
As blustery showers return again to drench the flowerbeds.

But soon the city, full of lights, reveals her shiny glow
As Christmas Markets in Les Halles, bring cheer amidst the gloom
And though the nights are longer now, as sun sinks pale and low,
Gold glints the domed Les Invalides above Napoleon’s tomb.

How can I choose? How can I cull the cream of this fair crop
Of images, all redolent of romance, style and fun?
I’ll have to keep returning, until old-age makes me stop,
To see that view in rain or wind or snow or cloud or sun.