Oh, how the Sun shone.
How the river slowly flowed, the trees rustled
and the birds lost the will to fly.
So warm, so bright, so blue, green and mellow.
Hearing the sounds, natural and not so.
Laughs, cars, water, wildlife, voices.
Footsteps.. my own and those of all around.
A football passed from one to another,
an ice-cream van with the vendor smoking a cigarette,
waiting for someone to stand and peruse the faded inventory.
To call out a list, long or short, of icy cold, sugary confection.
And then, with a turn away from the riverbank, away from the milling hoards,
there appeared a refuge.
There stood ancient monuments, almost purposefully hidden,
out of sight of the milling tourists, a haven for those local,
and those they chose to invite inside.
A rolling vista, slopes to lie back on in as that Sun beat down,
to relish the heat and light.
Full bodied men topless, basking under the Heavenly glow,
tempting the passing women with their sculpted physiques,
almost daring impure thought from those who chose virtue over sin.
Women scantily clad, all curves, thighs or breasts.
Legs which men would imagine wrapped around themselves,
sunglasses hiding their wandering eyes,
wandering imagination, not that much was ever needed in such a place.
On such a day.
But through it all, above other thoughts, beyond any other consideration
was the stall selling freshly made lemonade,
and the once forgotten memory entrapped within the innocent facade of a
bicycle at the front, and a boxed-square ‘stall’ at the back.
Sitting at the junction where two paths cross,
nestling partially under the shade of the trees backed onto the path by the river.
Flanked by almost ancient iron railings, probably thinner than the layers of paint they were covered by,
just the sound of footsteps remained.
Subconscious, brought to the forefront of the mind by that memory blanking out reality.
Drowning the real sights, sounds and smells.
The vendor extolling the cheap price of a small cup, but wishing every patron would pay the extra for
what he could squeeze from the same amount of fruit.
It was real, but surreal.
Same place, different time.
Same situation, but alone.
Same person, but half a man.
Same sensations, but now internalised. Not a shared experience.
Same feelings, but a different life.
Another place to avoid.
Another memory to bury.
Another time to remember, but also to forget.
Another person to stop dreaming about.
Another possible future to add to the already overfloeing grate, a fire overly fuelled.
Oh how the Sun shone…………….
Steve B 08/08