Tour de France

Gendarmes at attention on the village square,
kids practise waving plastic flags,
the doughnut man gets ready,
swearing about council rules,
and we’re all eating ice creams.

Down on the quay with an hour to go
a squadron of men in blue
riding backwards on motorbikes
and don’t the people cheer!
Trucks from Paris sell tricolour caps.

Media cars zip by.
Out of the way! This is important!
Cafés spill out onto the streets.
Oui, c’est la fête!

There’s a hush.
Helicopters swoop over the hill,
and a cavalcade of official cars
at a ripping pace.
Sirens warn kids off the street.
Ne touchez pas aux cyclistes!

We hold our breath.
Hundreds of legs and wheels in a tight bunch
whirring round the bend,
a blur of shirts, grim faces, sweat flying,
they’re gone!
We all breathe out again.