Collioure sur mer

Step outside your normal canvas and paint an impressionistic poem. I am paraphrasing imaginary garden with real toads here but that's the prompt. I don't think this really works but I gave it a go anyway.

Laneways cacophonise,
giggling like ruffled matadors in the heat,
their grey matt paving slabs
pounding like drums on a distant island.
Here they came,
Matisse, Derain, Signac,
like moths to a fuzzy light,
shards of slanting sun
singeing their beards and their brushes,
smudging the wave-lapped belltower
in a halitosis haze.
Dead ray and halibut piled up on the quay,
offending the delicate noses
of the bustled hoi-polloi
that patronised and patronised.
Dulce et decorum est,
says the cream-slapped child,
her arms the colour of quicksilver,
snatched up by a worried mother.
The whine of a distant guitar
curls around stockinged legs
and ballgowns rustle like chocolate
in the memory of the sea.
Across the harbour, a parson waved
but I turned and looked for you.