Well, now, so here we sit,
a-once again a-gathered…
“They better not be late.” he said,
as he lay his head back, slowly.
“About time we met up and talked.”
The black birds nodded only.
Strewn ash-side ‘n sofadjacent:
the spread of bags unfurled…
Ruptured yet still along fault lines and cracks,
riven with/driven by crime and grassroots,
underground prominence, overground shoots
emerge through concrete, cardboard, sleeping bags…
Each of us beneath our
varied layers of worn clothes…
“Maybe” (as she knocked off the ash
the girl proffered) “that just might make
your tale that much more engaging.
Through it, you’ll recreate
just what it’s like to live and dream.”
Each of us with tales ‘n
layered lives to be disclosed…
Carrying the music with them, sweeping up the Socratic smokers,
out onto the road, the island, absorbing the campers and the stars,
the crowd held boomboxes aloft, lit candles on their phones;
another crowd hit riot shields with fabric, flesh, and bone.
Islanders ‘twixt the riverrun.
Run, rivers! Take to Gloucester
all ‘n bring ‘em home – sweet, painted,
street-sung brickwork-lustre!
On these fields of rural land
I heard a trav’lin band play
for the outcasts b’yond the walls of the city.
Brown-eyed, the dog she finds
a spot beside the burnt-out fire,
sniffs the ash ‘n sniffs the air –
the scent of something by her.
They sang at St. James’ fayre
and, as I listened there,
I saw our past and future vividly.
Well, now I’m alone here,
but for painted characters,
‘n I’ll tell you what happened, there
‘neath the past light of stars.
More information and promo to begin in November…
Image credit – Bristol Live
william altoft 