Marie Flore

Marie, Marie Flore was a small girl of tenwhom I met in the south end of France.Stepping out of the crowd was the daughterof someone with flowers for me, we were friends at a glance.She spoke no English but sat by my side in the carand pointed out places en route to the village of Arles.

Marie, Marie Flore came to table that nightas I dined in an ancient hotel.The room was all fitted with things from the seventeenth centuryand they suited her well.She would eat nothing but sat in her chair like a queenand laughed at my French but seemed always to know what I'd mean.

Marie, Marie Flore came to hear me that nightwhen I sang for the people of Arles.She stood back in the shadows of a ruined arena,her frame in my mind was never too far.In the rush that did follow I found she was holding my handand ushering me through an evening the elders had planned.

Marie, Marie Flore, I will always rememberyour eyes, your smile and your grace.The gold that flowed with your laughter remainsto enlighten the image I have of your face.For I have seen children with faces much wiser than time,and you, my Marie, are most certainly one of this kind.

Marie, Marie Flore, all the odds say I see you againby plan or by chance.But if not you'll be there when I'm dreaming of rain over Parisor sun on the south end of France.Marie, Marie, Marie Flore.