I sit at the kerb and watch days pass by –
one after another… they are born at the corner, red,
wet with dew and naïveté of the newborn.
Slowly they grow into sun-shod monsters of destiny,
near-sighted minstrels of heartbreak and daily –
singing and dancing in
dutiful abandon, passing the life from one instant
to the next… all the while their twirling skirts gathering
rose-blushes, dust and gaiety.
Soon enough, they sweep up all, and are themselves
swept into the trashcan at the end of the road.
I watch them fade into hermits of grey heart
and failing light, shadows with oddly shaped symmetries,
dragging their beat-down feet
They take everything with them – days, when they die.
The mad gaiety, their text-lined eyes searching meanings,
old ways, new hands… bridges of light…
Only their minstrel-skirts twirl on – far-sighted bards –