Lord Byron, Upon Inspecting Today’s French Riviera

By Tucker Robinson

That gentle hand splayed out towards the sea
despairs to find the water cannot rise
enough to drown the parasites rent deep
into her flesh and drawing out her life.
They strip, cut, parcel, sterilise and bleach –
Decay to them is but a petty price
for that thing called luxury! Where new cars,
wives, villas, bake atop the land they’ve scarred.

That great hand’s veins are turned to grey from green,
her wan stone knuckles capped by cubes of white.
Her skin is pockmarked by the ugly sheen
of poisoned pools, made livid by the light.
The birds’ low song is lost to chainsaws’ squeals;
the moon’s glow swamped by headlamps in the night.
And in their midst, I (while no hypocrite)
recline and summon my muse to visit.



Inspiration behind the poem:

This poem was inspired to a visit to Southern France which coincided with a re-reading of Don Juan upon the bicentennial of Byron’s death. We hiked up into the hills, where we could see the promontories of the French Riviera stretch out into the sea like long green fingers.

Looking down, I wondered what Byron would make of the sight of thousands of villas, and the accompanying roads, cables and other paraphernalia that crusted over the natural landscape like a rash.

Just as Byronic, I thought, was the irony of my being one of millions who come to enjoy that area each year, and for whose pleasure all the offending infrastructure was created.


Tucker Robinson is a writer based in Bermondsey, London. He is currently developing a literary portfolio alongside his work as a political advisor. He is a graduate of Cambridge University, where he specialised in 19th century history.