The Swarming

The Library was her refuge:
through her thick lenses
she travelled far beyond
these sordid streets.
She lunched
with Byron and Yeats;
held off dervishes
with Gordon.
She was a true Bene Gesserit,
a Reverend Mother
of some note.

In the litter planted park
the Ten cursed and fought,
discussing,
monosyllabic,
the direction the evening
should take.
Their oversized clothing,
with uniform drabness,
prompted visions
of children
playing dress-up
in the rainy-day attic of a kinder world.

They surrounded
and devoured her
with their contrived anger.
Broken glasses,
scattered books,
ripped pages, lay mute
in the mud.

Her broken body
was serene and regal:
somewhen
the Sisterhood
mourned the passing
of a respected colleague,
and, at the siege of Khartoum,
Gordon fought on,
alone.

Under The Bridge

Fog from the river 
gathers under the bridge, 
dampening cardboard, 
chilling marrow 
and shrouding soul.

Moans rise 
to a waning moon: 
nightmare screams 
shatter 
an uncaring stillness.

Bundles of rags, 
drawn to the dying fire, 
mutter 
querulous monologues 
in alien tongues.

Bent figure, 
urinating in icy water, 
stumbles, splashes, 
and is gone 
without a ripple.

Bridge Epiphany

The bridge tower
beckoned to him,
like some strange
and shining fortress
from the fantasy books
of his youth;
that distant time
before his parents
divorced,
and his world died.

The view,
from his perch
on the pylon,
seemed
to be of twinkling
faerie lights,
viewed through the shimmer
of Avalon’s mist.
He forgot, momentarily,
the sadness 
of running away,
and the cruel reality 
of the streets.

In a moment of
crystalline clarity,
he saw that
the meaning of his life,
of his pain,
of his very being,
was only a prelude
to the finality
of now,
as the wind
of his swift passage
parted the fog
to reveal a glad smile
that would see
no tomorrows.

Third World Stigmata

The depth of sadness
in the girl's eyes
held the attention
of all
on the air-conditioned
tourist bus.
No older
than eight or nine,
she wove her way deftly
through dense Delhi traffic,
propelling her steel-castered,
wooden platform
with sure strokes of her hands.

Last year
her impoverished parents had
sold her,
the youngest,
so that the family
could live.
Her new owner,
realising the value
of his investment,
ensured that the operation,
removing both legs,
was sterile:
she was on the street
within two months.

Pausing at the corner lights,
the bus disgorged
several tourists,
who pressed
rupee notes
upon the small amputee.
They had no way
of knowing
their gift 
perpetuated
slavery and mutilation.

Bus Station Encounter

The stench 
of excrement-stained clothing, 
of body long unwashed, 
almost obscured 
the rich vocabulary, 
the cultural cadence, 
of the derelict's voice.

The young woman 
did not hear 
his compliments; 
did not recognise 
his astute and 
favourable analysis 
of her fashion statement. 
She merely said, 
"Piss off, 
or I'll scream."

Going Shopping

Her eyes shone, 
bright with anticipation, 
fuelled by 
the wondrous thought 
of six perfect hours 
at the mall.

Proud and bouncing steps 
punctuated her chatter: 
makeup colours, 
heels and straps, 
trademark sensitive, 
and, "Did you see his hair? 
It's just, like, soooo academy." 
Or, "I'm so like, totally
not taking his Text.”

The thrill of belonging, 
with her own kind; 
the thought of being 
devastatingly witty; 
the certainty of being 
so understated, cool; 
the fact of “in”, so
absolutely now: 
foundation feelings 
for a fragile psyche.

She just totally detested 
the filth of the side street 
leading to the mall: 
she and her friends 
stepped carefully 
around the sidewalk urchins, 
and tiptoed gracefully, 
on fashionably shod feet, 
past the scattered detritus 
of a world she would not see. 

Summer Interlude

To view a mossy forest glade;
to linger in a jackpine’s shade;
to taste an icy mountain creek,
and wish with all your heart
that you were on that mountain peak,
and that you were a part 
            of the solitude.

To walk a dusty country road;
to know a bullfrog from a toad;
to watch the waves break on the beach,
and taste the wind-blown spray,
and stand beyond the breakers’ reach
until the end of day. 
           And the wind was warm.

To lie there in your upstairs room;
to smell the summer’s sweet perfume;
to ponder on your passing youth,
and hum a mournful song,
but still you just can’t face the truth
that the days aren’t quite so long, 
            for now it’s autumn.

Curbside Retrospective

His thin shoulders
hunched
against the chill
evening mist,
he surveyed
the oncoming cars
with a weary look
of superior 
disdain.

The weariness
within
belied
his sixteen years.
He longed
for the peace
of his shabby room,
the distracting noise
and diversion
of his Xbox.

The Audi slowed...
stopped.
Power window lowered,
terms and conditions
discussed.
The boy noted the tie,
the service club
lapel pin,
and hated the man
nearly as much
as the abusive father,
     now
          far
               away.

Expatriate Summer

Some of us stay,
to watch planes fly overhead,
and feel the surge of transfer season wanderlust
     once again.

Others leave,
and take one final look at people and places
in a location that they had briefly
called home.

Some friendships forged,
some personalities clashed:
and we were all part of each other’s lives
for this short time.

Years from now
Personnel will publish names:
transitional changes.  And we will all
remember today.