Diary Notes: Lament At Dawn
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
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017
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