Flames Burn Quietly. Poem by Alistair Plint

Was walking
(no particular reason)
- most the city would call it
a death-wish
looking in the eyes of
street men;
some wear jail time well
others, preparing for it

crossed the road.
Stood in the garden of
the dead church,
under the jacaranda tree
which means something
in summer.

The old building smells of piss

the concrete flakes
like paint;
pity they don't flake together
cleaning bad graffiti
off the personality

jumped over
the short, black steel fence

saw the happy lady
with a soup kitchen,
trying to force some kind
of nourishment
into kids
-that believe
glue
is cheaper
than life without it.

Greeted her
she smiled
wearing friendly air;
she'd take your lunch
for someone else, given enough time
(the feminine Robin Hood)

Stepped into
the garden of remembrance
now overgrown
in need of a shovel
and creative vision.

Read the note
on the parish notice board
"You missed the bus! "
it said.

I walked home slowly
mumbling
something stupid about
time travel,
old churches
and tattoos.

Concluded the thought process
in a quotation...
"Sometimes shutting up
is solace enough".



-x-