At the Spanish border the Pyrenees dip their hot feet in the cool sea.
The narrow coast road there twists, rises and falls between their toes
And goes - to Collioure, a small fishing village,
More quaint than any place on this earth has any right to be.
You read about places like this – see them in the movies
And think they can’t be true –
That they’re history now and can’t exist – but they do!
I took her there one night
Because every once in a while a wife should be romanced.
The streets saw her coming and fairly showed off –
Would have danced with her- if streets could dance .
The little restaurants spilled out across the cobbled plaza,
Filling the air with chatter and roasted garlic.
Catalan folk music and street theatre on a balmy Summers eve –
A small part of us that would never leave.
Mellow with pasta and Sauvignon we strolled
The promenade like a million tourists before us.
And the evening settled on the water in purples and gold
As the sea gently hissed on the shore, a soothing chorus.
We stood to watch a street-artist complete this picture – and his own.
Harry Potter on an easel modeled the work. Wizard.
A small audience patiently admired the process.
His latest subject waited to be shown
If he had captured her.
The artist had a trick- as street performers will –
A way to keep his audience watching and still surprise.
The last strokes of the charcoal would be saved
To deftly, perfectly, finish with the eyes.
Startling- how they made the work live – become whole.
It made me think of her - my dear wife.
Not just because her eyes are so beautiful – the windows to her gentle soul-
But how, like those eyes, she completes and lights my life.
well now down to business. The first stanza is impeccable. i especially enjoyed the way that you used a familiar (to some, especially fans of For Whom the Bell Tolls.) place to introduce this unkown haven. Stanza 2 leads me to believe that this appreciation for the beauty of the lands though, are more for your wife's sake rather than your own genuine observations. And she is written in here as almost a goddess in the way that the streets themselves heave and bend to satisfy her. The reference to Harry Potter in stanza three however is misplaced in my eyes. I feel that some other metaphor\symbol for magic should be substituted, Harry potter steals from the sincerety of the romantic evening abroad. The Artist however fits like an old glove. The last stanza, really brought it all together for me, until then I found myself viewing the same stretch of the Coast, with a sprinkling of images of New Orleans street performers ( the closest thing in the U.S. to the overrall atmosphere of the streets of such a place.) But once the artist was introduced, the picture came into focus, and bny the time the last stanza starts, I am looking like the anxious crowd at the artwork that has no eyes. This however is where I lose the stride. Not to sound to uptight or anything, but in charcoal, it is very hard (if at all possible) to a) save the eyes for last, and 
make them beautiful and full of life. I myself would have given the artist a different medium through which to awe his audience. Other than that everything else has been said and resaid. 
except for that line, lol, i like this story. It's romantic. I esp like the subject matter. Maybe because, it's the eyes I notice first.
Lance Katigbak
March 4, 2006
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