by Sukie Shinn
The leaves are not allowed to ‘settle’ in this place.
There is no golden gathering of curlicued shapes
in darkened street corners – no moistened mulch full-trod by passers-by.
The only evidence of Autumnal tree dandruff
is a sweep of what has been – a skeletal outline
of dampened Horse Chestnut leaf traced
across the pavement between chewing gum toadstools.
City life.
So cleansed and yet so rotten to the core.
Past cafes, bars and pubs we walk.
We watch the bearded Arian man, playing his mandolin in front of a hushed
and reverent audience. And
around the corner from this
we see the lone bouncer,
awaiting the full onslaught from
some ghostly esoteric gang that seeks, somehow, to justify his role.
And then, beyond that corner still, with its 1970’s Council block of flats,
points the extended arm of development.
It hangs, elbow-bent,
ready to hoist fresh bricks and build its better, brave New World.
We wait in silence at the T junction,
where the sound of cars hovers helicopter-like.
And it’s at this axis point that peoples’ lives cross for perhaps the first, the last, the only time.
So are they aware, as they pass each other in misty, magic moments,
with the glow of further city life arcing itself behind them,
that this may be that ever special moment?
That ever special moment when they met?
Or do they simply drive on home to sameness
continuing a life filled with regret?
