I watch her from the cafe, a haven of sorts, dwelling within it own comings and goings, a source of meeting, communication and disengagements. I, the foreigner in a strange land, not lost, but simply outside of what is familiar, my senses sharpened on the grindstone of the newness of it all. A scent of coffee pervades the air, insulating all of us refugees from the harsh angularity of steel, concrete and glass of these densely crowded high rise buildings. Each of us carrying our own urgencies and dreams, our ambitions and desires for purpose and meaning
I turn my attention back to the open notebook on the table before me. There are words there; scribbled notes, sketches, false starts, names of people and places, dates for events long past, and images enshrined by words that may one day reinvent themselves as poems. I have carried all this across the world, through several time zones, and still it waits on my attention. Its all part of a hunger to make connections, find a key hole, a passageway that connects here with there. All part of that grandiose desire 'to make sense of it all', even though I only see what is before me.
The traffic flows without ceasing, a metallic stream in urgent flood. On the pavement a young woman wearing a thin yellow rain jacket is handing out leaflets to the passersby. Few people if any, extend a hand to accept, even fewer look in her direction, they just scurry past, chained and anchored to the other worlds they inhabit. The woman’s warm smile never falters even for a moment. What will she make of her time, when she reaches the quietude of her home, pushes the door shut behind her and slips out of that yellow jacket?
Pages flutter open
Empty of content.
The pen is silent now
Only the wind turns.
Slowly the river runs on
Barely a breath of wind
To flicker over its slick surface
Beneath the bridge
a graffiti fish holding station.
From the hedgerow
The chatter of sparrows,
Vapour trails heading eastwards.
From amongst brittle sun burnt grasses
An iridescent lizard darts out
Flicking out its tongue to taste the air,
To shape its world.
Then with a flick of its tail
It's lost in the sanctity of deep shade
Now only to exist in memory.
Please comment. If you found this, or any other post of interest, it is always a pleasure to hear from you. Thanks, Robert Ketchell