Low-hanging fruit

Crossing the Place de la Bastille, through crowds,

in rain, I mis-step, fail to gain traction

on a steep-sloped kerb, and go down hard,

limbs splayed, head coming to rest with a dull

thunk against unforgiving street furniture.

Looking up, three quarters stunned, I see

neat Parisians swerve on polished feet

like woodland creatures barely perturbed by

the fall of a mighty British oak.