Bem Rakpart

Bank side
Let your mind go


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!

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