In the inexorable now
of these morning streets,
tree-lined and strewn with churches,
my role is defined and exact as
small dried women scuttle like crabs
in the rituals of their 8 o`clock.
Here, silence is an affinity.
A closeness in the mind..
The hard quiet of endurance
hangs in the mouths
of narrow shops
and the early ochre mist.
I think of a mask,
worn too long, which becomes
impossible to remove.
Or the hard-won acceptance
of who I have always been.
As the morning sun turns
worn green leaves
to tongues of fire
and a fresh wind swirls pigeons
across the sky,
I nod a mute hello
to these old, new-born faces
and this town becomes a poem.
A sonnet I know by heart.
