“Parisian food is to die for” – you wrote.
“Even the rain tastes of fine château wine.
I am poisoning myself in style.
Boring does not exist here.
Paris is utterly divine and the company sublime.
May my journey never end.

Miss you.
Love and all that stuff
Write again soon.
From me; the travelling man”!


A hastily scribbled postcard written on some
stop over along the way.
No, wish you were here –

You selfish sod!

Removing my hands from the washing up bowl
I began to wonder if I had invented you.
Pouring myself a glass
of cheap nom de plume plonk
I began to destroy your card word by word.
Rearranging the cuttings made me smile…!

“Parisian food is poisoning me.
The wine tastes of rain.
Boring here.

Miss you and all that divine company
my fine sublime love”!

There; now you did exist
and this card was much more
of my liking… –

Poem Of The Day

Poppy August 2013

One thought on “Postcards…

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