by
David Shipton
Yelling, through the urban forests of anger, through the raised up pill-poppers in the cityscape. Swallowing, no more the choking sound of death, could it be the tempest at its roosting spot, or more the fact that time itself had paused for the rest it so desperately wanted?
He plays the strings, the echo of the melancholy spices the doom laden tune with worth that is counted in the emptiness of his guitar case and the hollow words strung together with an old Beatles tune, "Love Me, Do", - not with this drama torn to distortion.
The face of a child, the gutter's sad, filthy child moans out over the black-red brick buildings, it all seems to flow back to another time. The eyes, eyes that had seen much, but cruelly wanted much more to see. This the robe of the singer at the door of the Ibex cafe.
Stone, brick and mortar tingles with his sound, the souls close, try, dare not to hear. Mothers check babies in their cribs. The postman pauses at the top of Maple Road and Tramble Avenue before moving like the mist at dawn, away, away to the rest of the city-life.
The street, the audience to his vocals, to his moans, to his protest. The street, an insignificance in the realm of the world thing, the greater meaning, sadly life. He plays on till, at last, tragically or callously the singer is moved on.
Cold clouds of December pull over head, touched brown by the render mills not five blocks away. The image of authority is back dropped by this as the singer nuzzles the guitar into the case like the Latin lover she is.
Winter is fast at hand he thinks, he watches the face half concealed by the hardness of a Bobbies hat. Then to his feet, the crinkle of his leathers makes the policeman almost wince from instinct. He smiles, if he had a hat he would tip it as well. Sadly that was another time, and this is this time.
Again the sky calls, drops fall like searching children in the lonely ocean, each wanting to catch the permanence of an impact, the fragmentary history of being a raindrop.
The singer stares at the rain, its minions grow with the calling of time, he looks at the officer, the first drops hanging on the edge of his hat and the face, dark and cold, looks for all like the rabid dog he suspects.
But he smiles, smiles for what he is, smiles and pulls a small paper flower from his coat pocket. The little yellow and black thing is but tissue and twine, nothing in its substance but in the action the most wondrous of gifts in the world.
He hands it to the policeman.
"Merry Christmas, officer," He says, then turns and walks with full strides up Maple Road and into the oblivion of the city.
Copyright(C) 1997 David Shipton