December 22, 2011
Rue Paratilla is small and intimate. It isn’t a road but it’s larger than an alley or a path and connects Rue de l’Ange and Rue Voltaire with Rue de la Fusterie (the road of the new carpenters). From inside the Bar de la Marée, there’s snapshot of the familiarity of life here – stall holders and locals – shaking hands, drinking, smoking, eating plates of seafood.
The camion and the stand of chairs add to the colour and general verve . . .
The windows of the poissonnerie are similarly bright, jolly and picturesque.
René Paratilla, an airman who died in combat in September 1939, might be pleased with this little street. It’s full of bonhomie.
We must admire her perfect aim,
this huntress of the winter air
whose level weapon needs no sight,
if it were not that everywhere
her game is sure, her shot is right.
The least of us could do the same.
The chalky birds or boats stand still,
reducing her conditions of chance;
air’s gallery marks identically
the narrow gallery of her glance.
The target-center in her eye
is equally her aim and will.
Time’s in her pocket, ticking loud
on one stalled second. She’ll consult
not time nor circumstance. She calls
on atmosphere for her result.
(It is this clock that later falls
in wheels and chimes of leaf and cloud). Elizabeth Bishop The Colder The Air.