Gazing out upon the idleness of fantasy,

We age, greying upon the reflection of a beam of light,

And all around are marvelously made-up mannequins,

Those former shadows of ourselves

As we intrude amongst a world of cascading colour,

As slowly we arch into the afternoon.

 

And tongues tentatively tickle at joyful gelatos,

Serendipitous smiles, youthful yearning,

And the clickety-clack high-heeled melody

Of telling tribulations found among calamitous cobbles,

The ambling of avaricious avenues,

As slowly we arch into the afternoon.

 

We drift past these midday rituals,

Languishing over coffee

And the heady pale fire of cigarettes;

We all tease at speculative shadows,

With the flirtatious frivolity of our eyes;

As slowly we arch into the afternoon.

 

With all these corpulent considerations,

Silent endevours,

The whisperings and the murmuring,

Of tittle-tattle telephony,

Indubitable insinuations,

Of who I am to you,

And who are you to me?

As slowly we arch into the afternoon.

 

And we carve out our identities

From the flux of our affinities,

Always returning,

Yes,

Always returning,

Summoning our silent shadows,

Engraving our footsteps over the same old ground,

As slowly we arch into the afternoon.

 

Monday 16 September 2019