The Old Town

Thin line of chalk
Across a felt blue sky

Briefly ahead of arrival

One mark
Two hundred tourists leave

Long after late departure

Expanding dissipating carrying

Homeward from littered beaches

Now that winter
Has packed its bags

Decent citizens stagger

Through
Burdensome afternoon labour

In the vaporous ripple

From the gutter of holiday dreams

Under blood-ripened tangerine sky

Spinning pinwheels
On the hillside

Hands of colossal clocks

Counting time
As sheaves of wheat

Stacked and rolled for brute famine

Electric failure and water shortage

Betray those lengthy limbs of history

Kerosene lamps
Strung on twine

Connecting portico posts

Flickering
Pixelated screens behind

Faded lace-covered windows spread

Along the hill as covert metropolis

Disguising the original village wings

Stand securely

Beside the hopeful future

To gaze beyond the loam

Watch waves
Surge down a polished shore

Wrinkling
The mirage-soft perspective

In advance of the heat-curled

Carrotic arc 
Of a delicate ladled sun

You take the old town

I’ll have the rest of the world

 

Back in your two up one down

Semi-detached brownstone

Frown

Drag your feet

Raindrop ghost walk

That parade of the past

Shuffle off the mortal coil

Behind a mud-splashed street

The dirty docks and mistier ports

A national treasure a flag unfurled

A grope in the alley or dark of the pub

You have the old town

I’ll take the rest of the world

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