Sonnet 24

Our ferry from Issambres crossed the bay –
all Blofeld yachts with helicopter pads –
to exquisitely cheesy St Tropez,
where Russian billionaires humoured the fads
of girls approximately half their age.
Along the jetty, fauvist headache art
enticed the frozen-blooded copraphage.
The harbour smelt quite pungently of farts.
Not caring what the Salafists might preach
or who, just promenading, might be killed:
a lively market in the shade of trees.
A cemetery slumbered on the beach.
Upon the brown pine needle-coated hill,
the monument to Saint-Exupéry.