Pere Lachaise.

In the world of the paper dragons

Where the bird of paradise dwells

A robin comes a-calling

To the chiming of the bells

I was riding back from Paris

With the gypsy in my thoughts

Wondering if in Sacre Couer

I’d found answers that I sought

I’d seen a grave in Pere Lachaise

Writ in English, on the stone

‘In the arms of the Angels’

‘Gone, but not alone’

I sat there with the robin

‘Neath a winter sky of blue

And thought about the gravestone

And thought a lot of you

Little Joyce Archambeau ,barely six years old

Died in eighteen eighty seven

And now lies here in the cold

I went to buy some flowers

Then laid them with Little Joyce

I hoped that she could see them still

And maybe hear my voice

I sat the while and spoke to her

Of the Paris that she knew

I told her of the dragonflies

And talked to her of you

But now I’m back in Angleterre

In my garden, on a bench

And in the tree, beside me

A robin sings to me, in French.