Deauville, New Year’s Night
A poem by N.L. Holmes

Deauville, New Year’s Night

Lights fracture off rain-slick streets
in damp cold of night on the Channel.
At the Beaux-Arts cream-cake of a casino,
tall windows pour streams of gold
into the dark. Hotel restaurants flame.
We wander the chilly high street, gaping
at the half-timbered mairie dripping with quick-
silver, whole intersections tented with fairy lights,
flocked firs prismed in one color
after another. Hermès is closed and Louis Vuitton,
but their vitrines glow with seduction—
each five-thousand-euro watch and luscious scarf
costs more than my whole wardrobe—
doubled on puddled pavement.
January’s breath shivers down our necks.
A tinkle of distant laughter. Side streets are black
as we make our way back to our car,
huddled in ten-year-old coats.

About the Author:

N.L. Holmes has been a nun, an artist, an interior designer, and an archaeologist, among other things. At present, she writes historical novels. With their cats, chickens and geese, she and her husband live in northern France.

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