Paris, Texas

Paris, Texas

In the far‑off echo of a western sun, a quiet town where shadows bind and run. Paris, Texas, a name that quavers, a slice of the heart of the great tar‑blown clover.

The streets are paved with iron‑toothed rails, and the scent of orange‑flavoured air hails. The telephone line, a lonely witness, to calloused hands and gentle, breaking kisses.

A blue‑pink motel, a whispering drive‑way, the creek that gurgles in the night’s soft sway. The scent of mackerel bakes on the porch, as in pastoral silence, the night is lurch.

The people clutch a dream in weary grief, and yearn for freedom, though cut by belief. They roam the old prairie with old-school boots, and laugh like children, yet break their roots.

The cliffs are moored in yonder horizon, and every sing‑song is a bright horizon. This town may seem giddy, yet contained it in light, in every held breath, a warm, quiet delight.

With melanoma decay, an unyielding tyre, the future of this city be a scavenger. Yet as I leave, I feel, in my mind’s bright form, Paris, Texas cracks the final dawn.