First Day Without Someone
There is always the first day
without someone you love.
The dawn seems paler, colder,
you cannot hear the pigeons,
but they are there, outside,
in the magnificient absence.
They are scratching roof tops,
quietly cooing in dappled sun.
The day passes in a white haze
of eyes wide open in the mist.
Here, you feel as if nothing can
touch you, until the dusk rain
comes, tear drops into puddles
and many golden leaves flutter.
You are bound to remain here,
by park benches, grey umbrellas,
pathways reflecting streetlights,
footsteps along wet asphalt and
car tyres splashing into kerbs
in a cacophany of honking horns.
There is nothing lonelier, than
a city street, at dusk in October.
Then the first big storm lights
up the terraces and its thunder
explodes, as the deluge pounds
down and now you just want to
protect them and be cosy inside.
But there is nothing to hold,
but a photo fraying on its edges.
There is the second frozen dawn
without someone you love, then
day comes like a new strange era,
that you don't want to journey into,
since you are waiting for them
like a ghost, on the outside of time.
Today the pigeons move in closer
and the last leaves tremble. It takes
a little while for a big park resume.
Soon we move through this place
like a season, that is never the same,
having all flourished imperfectly.
Leaves are tossed onto dying grass
and the sea gulls are calling from
the wharf, as the salty fog moves in
and suddenly you are sensitive
to everything, as you try not to step
on the flowers, because they are
so tiny and white, like rivers of stars,
but they are already fading, my love,
some are like dew, holding fast
on the edge of this dark silver city,
then gone forever, upon first light. |
