We sit silently, like acolytes at
Prayer, composing incantations in
Our heads for the day that lies before us.
We are still, absorbed in our thoughts, wary
Of each other, of unknown agents who
Might just disrupt the serenity with
Bursts of jangling, tinny beats or one side
Of a lover's tiff beamed through the ether.
Who are we who take our places daily?
Scions of the City elders mainly,
Some secretaries and lawyers, no doubt,
And those with vaguer purpose, too, but not
The cleaners and security guards long
Since started on their shifts, fuelled by tea
And toast made from cheap loaves, thickly buttered,
Without the salmon that will grace some plates.
And the low, red sun of winter morning
Offers up a warning, how each such day
Might be our last, how each member of this
Congregation of little worlds, with their
Private hopes and fears, desires and regrets,
With their debts and secret affairs, and their
Hanker for a gentler, kinder bearing,
Could simply cease to be, lifted from the
Narratives of many others' stories,
To become a parable of sadness
And testimony to dreams unfulfilled.
Would they mourn? Would this ecumenical
Crowd shed a tear for the empty seat or
Merely look on with expectation, a
Moment's curiosity expended
As a new vessel takes their place and smiles?
January 2016
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Fragments And Reflections
PoetryPoems looking at everything and anything not in my other collections. Here you'll find life and time, wild oceans and lonely coast paths, busy streets and empty hotel rooms, wild concerts and late night writing. All just fragments and reflections, l...