Thirty Days (in a trance suspended)

Thirty days in a trance suspended
while continents move and walls
render opaque views of ideofacts
engendered wary by passage through
time. Thirty days proving the tutoring
of early years suited shrinkage of grand
ideas to motes of understanding. One
calendar month in making – a pocket
sized handkerchief to wrap a world in.

In Bangkok the man whose cousin lived
in Melbourne offered help for free, loved
the country; an ex-policeman who guided
plaza tourists gave equally of his time – you’ll
come back he predicted. Even tuk tuk drivers
were friendly doing cut-throat business.

Standing in Old City listening to Stockholm
breathe seeing cannonballs embedded in
walls with yesterday emblazoned proudly;
waiting patiently for a reason. Seeing
the same dignity in London – ready to
understand. Amsterdam’s graffiti crawled
like a cyclist meanders through traffic on
walls in languages foreign to beliefs; and
the church towers cast shadows on us all.

Luzern with a lake’s calm to ameliorate grand
passion held in check; a mirror to reflect
ripple-patterns of swan’s passage and trees,
timelessness to recharge batteries in dells and
lees of mountain reaches, echoes of cow bells.

Paris in a maelsrom of ebullience, seeking
out the Parisienne who’d ring true to Gallic
indifference, finding none. Climbing the
Eiffel Tower and seeking the Seine, a serene
and sparkling necklace embracing a graceful
sweep of the City. Finding peace.
©26 September 2007, I. D. Carswell