winterville

Tonight the violinist’s fingers are laced with ice
With fervor ignited so, that my gaze would not thaw,
The air is of borrowed nostalgia crippling the present
While tears shrivel these ovals into the surrounding flesh; Submerged –
into an impending horizon,

I feel the rhythm inside trip over a memory,
Sentiment churns within its chamber,
The heart, a live ember rattling against the ribcage;
Still managing to singe the soul every now and then

The dregs of memory, infuses flavour into the present
I stall within, outwardly, ubiquitously - in the midst of a social goulash
They belong here too, those engulfed in the pleasing company of a tune
- that for them avoids inheritance to any thought.
Twinkle lights spark another jig by the city’s suburban inmates,
Emotion -the bard, stutters in the December still,

Life, the dull-witted postman knocks us against the thatched hide of circumstance,
We like packages flourish within the belly of his trade,
Planted meekly as those well meaning trees,
Scattered foolishly amongst the shoppers that cobweb our streets.

Tonight, the city is a gasping character,
And we, the concentrate of its verve -  
The stuff of what memory relishes,
Our escapades the flavour of circumstance,
A singular moment unkempt, in my thoughts
A time of misplaced significance, for now but not for all.