In screeching seagull song sounds out senescent afternoon.
The road runs riv’ring currents, coursing crashless swirls of traffic.
King Will’yum walks, in wettened-sand.
A finely crafted lot of letters nailed into its door, the room, so full in retrospect, slept – spacious; silent.
The walls of mud-made brick that bind and shape the space they share start to compress – contracting in upon themselves; sharp shuddering.
Is masked th’moon’s cratered plight beyond the wisp-white atmosphere.
The grain is mismatched ‘cross the breaks.
Outside, upon the paved ‘n railing-ringed walk – sheltered – way, where Sunday patrons sit, the sun, through th’river’s auld reflection sings on th’wooden slats below the Cascade Steps.
Trooping past: a generation.
The wind-waves ferry only onward th’scents of wawtry wood and th’smells of rainswept stone.
Under the patchwork canopy that catches falling rain…
Now opens up to see far dist’ horizon helmed by fire.
Two paths curve t’ward an empty cradle.