I came to walk and sit beside a gentle babbling brook.
Every nook and cranny deserves a closer prod and look.
It was uncanny where secrets hid unseen from the naked eye.
Until a gentle nudge uncovered treasures waiting nearby.
I probed to look far beyond the smooth stone faces.
Into the spaces between the cobbles, into their hidden places.
For canny people know that gold is found where fractures part.
They follow the cracks that lead onward to a broken heart.
So, by hook or by crook, every crack deserves its chance.
Every flaw needs far more than a quick sideways glance.
For gold dust never gathers in the nook of a perfect thing.
It waits until brokenness, finds its voice, and learns to sing.
The crannies and cracks let the daylight gleam through.
They ask to not be hidden away, nor discarded from view.
With patient hands, each fracture is traced with gold—
Until the cracked and broken become precious and bold.
Rutted twittens, ivy shadowed
flecked with fuchsia blooms
as spring nods gaily
to wake dozy summer
and clattering of feet
on the sparse cobbles
that meander in quaintness
toward sprawling flea markets
where bustle and laughter
of children, echo, larkish
amid the ruddy traders
who grin and joke
behind their wobbly trestles
draped in gingham cloth
that sport a shambles
of vibrant, ancient treasures.
concentrated in cobbles
unpatterned fairyland
box homes coloured
community symphonic
church mosque kiss mystical
flesh moves brick RECREATE
realms unified and truthful
fabric encodes memories
generational genetics quietly smile
enlightened shadows
in craft supreme
ancestral PROMPTS
in district cultural
moods
stabilised
his-herstory
recorded
____________
Fabric Art Wall Tapestry : Appliqué & Image Embroidery, Quilting : ‘BIRTH STREET ALIVE’ : 71 Horstley Street, District Six’ : Prior to Forced Removals : Ghairo Daniels : 2021
Leatherette & Suede with cotton, silk, satin, coloured net, chiffon, beads, sequins, buttons : 100 x 58 cm : Purple Satin Lining
Style: Historical Story Quilting
[ NB. Link to pics at comments section of Poem ]
The past rises
grey and pink
amid rasping gravel
barnacled to chasms
sunken and sodden
clawing at hasty feet
that skate manically
and hurl bodies cruciform
onto mocking concrete.
The marred morn pauses
for a nanosecond
to ponder the maelstrom
of mangled flesh
and sirens.
(translated from Giosue Carducci)
I dream of gentle things. My freshman year,
a room where sun poured in, freedom from books,
the thundering carts on cobbles in the via,
a wreath of sorghum round my neck. To look
out from my window was unbroken joy:
one way those flower-carpeted old hills,
the other, sparkling shoreline: still a boy,
I splashed out on a suit, and shirts with frills!
I'll never know that animal verve again.
I'm sure that glittering sea, those slumbering isles,
were not like now, prosaic. And summer rain,
I swear, on mornings when it caught me, smiled.
I remember, oh how I remember
The days were now long gone.
Oh. How we loved to meander
Along the paths that winded
The slopes of our hill sides,
Where fragrant firs and larches
Embellished the surrounding hills.
Oh, how I remember the ambience,
The exotic finches flying from tree to tree,
Their luscious serenades echoing around,
While my love and I would stroll over cobbles
Our hands entwined in limitless love.
We’d kiss and hug as we would stop
To hear the lullabies of the finches fine.
I remember, oh how I remember
The day we went to a large store
When she suddenly fainted and fell.
The trip to hospital was long and traffic
Was congested. I held her hand while
The paramedics did their best. What was wrong?
She did not survive. Dreadfully, I could only cry.
Rubbed smooth and round in river slides ~
Cobbles jumbled - roughen stone-road rides
Once upon a magical evening, an enchanted fairy I happened to see,
dressed in a fantastical dress with two dappled wings of lace.
She shone like the midnight sun—
I must confess, she looked rather whimsical,
sitting there by a green wooden door, waiting for your lore.
The door was set in an ivy-cloaked wall,
half-hidden beneath where the ancient trees fall,
their roots like fingers, gripping the stone,
in a forest where time stands alone.
Sunlight dripped through the emerald haze,
turning mist into gold in that secret place.
The fairy looked up with a twinkle-eyed grin,
and whispered, “The path to dreams lies within.”
She opened the door with a creak and a sigh,
and the moss-covered world seemed to breathe and reply.
A stairway of cobbles descended below,
to realms where forgotten wild wonders grow.
Now when I sleep and the twilight swells,
I walk once more through other realms—
past the wooden door, through the forest seams,
guided by whispers and purple dreams.
If you're ever lost, forgotten, or misstep.
I'll traipse down the cobbles of your crash.
Hand in hand until you're back on track.
I'll surely spruce up a room for you.
It'll be on the mundane -humble side
but safe, warm, and welcoming.
Like in a child's sunlit dream.
I can cloak the well-worn floor
with a pattern of your choice.
There'll be no rent or rent of judgement.
Only a gray shoulder to stain
with the colors of your choice.
We'll whisper of the misty past.
Untangle the present and its jaggedness.
Pan the gold from the slag of tomorrow.
I'll gently lay a patch upon that blue chip in your heart.
For I love you immensely; you can stay forever if you wish, dear heart.
Time tells history
Of cobbles stone and pebbles
Of arch and arches that met
Life, sorrow and pain
There was link that connect
The old and the new stories
The path they have walked before
Still imprinting footprints today
The dust they have breathe before
Still the dust i have breathe today
The water under the old bridge
Never runs dry, it's the water that flows
Right before my very eyes
How many tears and laughter roll on the bridge
Countless memories had passed since time immemorial
The people who have passing has gone one by one
Yet, the bridge is the witness how it was portrayed
The bridge may transform from laying bricks
To the modern sophisticated of metal composition
But the purpose was not defeated and trampled
It's still connecting people, history, and commerce of life.
Cobbled street is lowly lit with shadows all around.
Street lights flicker in the wind and now the rain is falling down.
Glistening cobbles under feet as the street winds on further down.
Curtains closed but light I see as families within settle down.
Cat winds through the iron fence to greet me with a purry meow.
His hedges protect him under his canopy as he observes the night for when the mice come out.
Cobbled street’s seen centuries of people walking where I walk now.
Cobbled street’s heard takes of mystery and seen evil deeds over its ground.
Cobbled street cambers unevenly where feet could easily lose purchase of their ground.
Cobbled street looks back at me as just another human who once walked down.
.
If i’m finding theirn
whensoever
‘Pon the City Center’s
Cobblestones
howsoever
My will share
Oh yesss
Thus
’Twuz
‘the mine’ seven A.M.ish
The fog not yet lifted from the cobbles
And unto
Mine eyne
Each stone glistered
Shimmering
from the wet
And whut the
glint
Wuz that
‘Twuz her’z
In the
Spaghetti floral beach dress
Sitting at the curb
smiling
Four Cafe’s
It was post digestion time, 6pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”!
Along the frozen cobbles, “Chartreuse” fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, Monkeyfied by the Green Devil; towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors, spit tainted in past blood, open 24 hrs per day 364 days each year , “ No ! Not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this day, i visit four cafe’s.
My tipple of choice Absinth ! And a deck of cards ! held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Bookshop. A Cafe, 174 worn steps below me, its name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.
Count.
Four Cafe’s
It was post digestion time, 10pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”!
Along the frozen cobbles, Ale fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, fuelled “by many Trappist brews” towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors, spit tainted in past blood, open 24 hrs per day 364 days each year , “ No ! The one day is not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this one day, i visit " Cafe Noir"
My tipple of choice is a hand of cards ! held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Library, a Cafe,174 worn steps below me, name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.
Count.
One man.
Treading the streets of his city,
large black overcoat blending into the night,
pipe bowl softly glowing red against the dark,
cane sharply clacking aginst the cobbles.
Suddenly an owl sweeps by,
white wings flashing softly,
quietly hooting.
One man,
one street,
one bird,
one night.
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