Tuesday, February 27, 2018
Those Solar Days
Nothing striking nor spectacular ruffled
those solar days. Hours strolled by without
fuss or clamour so we railed roads to rinks
and glided like corbeaux wide and focused,
knees bare, legs crisscrossing
with arms flung at sides aiding balance
and propulsion, we skated headlong.
Bruises from bumpy lanes and soft kisses
from cars in chataigne-coloured jackets
were tokens paid for glints in girls' eyes.
Sundays, we strutted in best garb proudly
to church, said prayers later when ‘liming'
invoking the ‘blue' bible that adults
pretend not to use. Night-time window
shopping was affordable fun
and we were beginning to see through tinted
glass clearly. Freedom began raising
its flag and foreigners flinched as closed
doors opened. Boys dreamed to be doctors,
girls nurses, though some voices faded
to faraway fields. TV showed we were
old fashioned, left behind after the rapture
with a need to rise, to track trends
and join the Joneses.
Dragged along the stream of change,
we heard too late the crack of guns and went
blind when ‘Trojan horse' transformed homes
like cells with burglar proof bars. But trees still
flower and bloom freely, the balata,
mahogany and poui still stand strong,
the poinsettia still gives blood
to Christmas and Palms still cast branches
triumphantly while waves with white hats
race driftwood to shore bathing beaches
and suckling sand as the world primes
its weapons, focuses on another
country's wealth bandying words carefully
couched in a mockery of democracy.
Topic(s) of this poem: old memory