Silodam

There he stood parked at the waterside, an old Citroën. Grey from the outside, but with red lining on the inside - and above us a grey sky over a ditto Silodam. A view in the mirror. Then our imagination takes us along - to France, rolling over some Route Nationale, southbound, following the sun. Last summer still, when life was languid, the days sultry and love intense. For a moment we feel again the warmth, taste the crispy bread, the salty cheese, a drop of sweat pearling over our skin, the buzz in a an distant alley across the square. Or the grass itching in our neck, another kiss. The rolling along the road, the rattling over a bridge. Our view strays off and everything now looks a bit warmer, radiating. The Silodam, are we still at the Silodam?