A finely scented pipe, by that I mean tobacco, ornate in its design
The drift of smoke, the owner’s look, all the ingredients for conspiracy/ intrigue.
With a sun set reflecting off the windows on the far-side the sunlight, in rebounds, trickles across to where I am, but then suddenly, perhaps a moment, a cloud or a passing minute, it’s gone.
I’m left instead in the veil of a bright bank walk evening, the benches are filling up.
The joggers are sweating, while the cyclists glide arrogantly by.
On the river a tour boat moves southwards, the snap happy tourists confined; perhaps not, perhaps they’re just weary,
And at Batthyany they’ll be ready to dock.
The cars down below, they stop and they flow,
now and then I gain a new neighbour
But high perched on this wall maybe they can’t see me at all,
Or maybe they just never notice.
Again I look up for ideas, inspiration is fading it seems
The treelined ‘rakpart’ calls me onwards…
and downwards to the city beneath.
Ah yes…the pubs where i would have frequented
the cellars, the smoke and the beers…
A tourist boat, another now passing distracts me,
A new life it seems.
I hear the squeak of an unoiled bicycle, the rubber on tarmac below,
a bird I heard earlier is silenced as the traffic’s beginning to grow.
The light while still present, soon fading,
a breeze at my back urges me on,
the river and sky now nearly one hue…
Ok, it is time and I’m gone!