I went for a walk-in-the-snow and thought about Marcel:
His madeleine, of course, and the tea smell,
His cork-lined bedroom,
My Proust – the master of social distancing!
Mademoiselles with embroidered parasols,
Passing by his closed Belle Epoque windows,
Their boater hats full with white, red, and blue
Fresh wild flowers,
Their knee-length corsets,
Layers of petticoats and ruffles,
All manner of lacy excesses,
Cascades of silk
To cover up their beauty.
Their illusive visages, blurred by the speed
At which they pass Marcel’s ‘Grand Hotel’ house,
And then disappear
Behind the summer horizon,
Likely to never be seen again,
Made these girls and the whole scene with Marcel in it
So infinitely more beautiful.
And that was that.
The 14th of February.