Under Siege

Under Siege

During dinner - in Place Neuf Jets - I commented
on the clarity of the Catalan moon
as it rose above restaurant rooftops.

'But the moon is the moon
is the moon,' said Oaf, 'back home
we don't say "English moon, do we?'

But my wife's explanation
of romanticism
was interrupted by Outfit;

'Whoever wrote "The Cow Jumped
Over The Moon, was on class A,
or somefin sim.'

'Not so!' Oaf fulcrummed his fork
over an un-eaten frite,
'Imagine a poet watching - from afar '

an attack on a medieval stronghold¦ nightfall¦
the moon rises... a cow carcass gets flung
high into the sky¦ and voila,

there's your nursery rhyme.'
He fired a crouton over a spoon.
'Nerd,' said Outfit.

My wife, in an attempt to drag the conversation
away from the surreal, asked him,
'Do you know the French for catapult?'

'Ah, you're thinking of a trebuchet, Mother,
which works on an entirely different principal.'
Knowing he only uses "Mother

when being superior,
I met my wife's eyes. In the background,
French families babbled, the thirteenth-century

fountain bubbled and our teenagers
discussed bovine-ballistics.
We communicated silently,
knew we had reached

our middle ages.