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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Diary Notes: Lament at Dawn …at the heart of the township ten-ton buses throb empty their drivers slumped in the heat behind their steering wheels listening to their favourite stations hot full of drowsy hissed talk on the pregnancy of stars at junctions overhead drives bridges roundabouts crossroads you see mothers with shopping bags dragging woeful tearful toddlers waiting at traffic lights where no traffic waits the air disgorges itself of fumes and no birds would sing to a deserted plain at the academy building where garden warblers vied with larks aspiring choruses at street operas only the abandoned rickety scaffolding drip with stale paint the Great tit so insistent in her quest driven with late June cracker blasts at midnight has joined some vagrant migrant lot to the Mediterranean mists only stray magpies quarrel in undertones swearing cursing scrapping the mind pigeons and turtle doves forage along pathways mocking foot-falling steps the route round the back of the Prefecture for a year now is shut to the public a reminder to the Charlie Hebdo ISIS fiasco and the joggers take to the thoroughfare in their tell-tale whallop-y shorts at the kinder gardens lone working mothers hang out with texting iPhones for the evening bell the beggars all gone to sun themselves (yes…this’s cruel) on the Riviera leaving four wizened figures long un-paying residents by the law faculty mounds seated next to next in their unwashed best exchanging memories like the kids they may have been at tenement blocks on an abandoned culvert without toys the skies cloud over and dissipate without complaint now and then Atlantic winds bring news of thunder and have us short-changed the last we heard was the early morning 5.20 metro pull out of its shed at the drug-and-grocery stores supermarkets only the migrant lot meet to chat the Mall stays chockfull of lush-green girls dressed in their mothers’ best looking for a fix the queues thin at the chemist’s security guards tire of looking into bags they smile thinking of something that must have amused them perhaps at some chance encounter or at some pungent lascivious repartee the Maghreb-ian neighbours still won’t give up their heedless tapage you can even hear their gasping breath on creaking boards and floors those who come and go at the entrance still spy on the locks and keyholes yours to pick and click waiting to tell the gardienne or some official still on vacation the usual figures flit through the early light to dig into the rubbish bins lepers of our remains where do they bunk in what mountain hold or time silently busy not-caring what the world might think (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
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