27th July. A thursday Sitges. 2017.

Calle Bonnaire

 

Brilliant light.

Sounds coming up to us. These narrow streets

funnel the noise and amplify it somehow, though not aggressively.

Just daily life. Unaffected.

Take it or leave it discourse.

The rubbing along of a more or less polite society

It is music I think. An opera. Small voices confiding.

A mother and daughter. Then the strident tones of a trader.

Rumbling of wheels on the flagstones and sweeping

that sometimes imitates the washing of the sea.

Sea rising in sympathy with troubled air and the moon

and dancing with feathered caps as it races toward the shore

where it rests and tells stories to the incoming waves.

Then they all re-group somehow with an inward suck

and slink back to the great body of water before returning

with fresh stories that only fishermen can attempt to interpret.

Then hasty steps and furtive steps. The drill of some pneumatic tool

and of course the declamatory siren of a car alarm from time to time.

Patrice and I. We in our pools of quiet reflection are content

to sit naked and inconspicuous yet so close to all of the life going on.

We make plans slowly and wonder if we should have another cup of tea.

Gifts

Gift

Gift

Gift

 

Out there beyond the torpor

Past the grey, cold December light

Other people rush to be involved

Get infected by the seasons’ promise

And find them-selves snarled-up

In traffic. Impetuous to please

 

And so they are gone

Wrapped in their own little bubbles

Imperilled coloured baubles

Infused with fractious lust

Aspirations bloated by want

Adrift in false desire

 

I am witness. Quietly

In a harbour of my own

Less the glitter

Less ardent

But floating nonetheless

In perilous ennui

 

But they have a point

For high days and festivals

Deserve a sincere approach

And I am not fervent

In any of my preparations

Perhaps less qualified for the gift