In the summer, in the city

[DieterM]

The kids have left
to stay with granny in Deauville,
or near the Arcachon Bay
with their pinay nanny.
The school building next door
behind its row of shushing poplars
displays the sorry smile
of a deserted mausoleum;
its gaping playground echoes
with the memory of joyful shrieks and yells.
At 8 a. m., a mercenary army
of Sisyphusses clad in dungaress and singlets
overruns the streets,
digs trenches, wages war against
the rapid wear of time,
forgetting it’s a battle one can’t win.
At six they part, the needle sun turns
bigger and a paler shade of white,
and slumber falls over the fences.
Then the sleepy suburb reeks of pine needles,
hot asphalt, barbecue, rosé wine,
salt and boredom.
Half of the houses seem to lie in wait,
their wooden window shutters closed;
they hum and purr like stony birds of prey or cats
ready to pounce on unsuspecting passers-by.
An airplane crosses the blue sky,
leaving a vapour trail behind,
the frail and immaterial memento
that everything remains uncertain.
Someone in the distance mows his lawn.
A car drives down a side street,
but it sounds subdued, almost reluctant,
as if to underline how ominous
the city feels in summer.

[Danik 2016]

I loved this poem, Dieter! One can almost see, hear and smell the suburb.
And sadly, 14th of July reverberates in the images of the street:
"At 8 a. m., a mercenary army
of Sisyphusses clad in dungaress and singlets
overruns the streets,
digs trenches, wages war against
the rapid wear of time,
forgetting it’s a battle one can’t win."

[mahmod qabaga]

At six they part, the needle sun turns
bigger and a paler shade of white,
and slumber falls over the fences.


a wonder full view told us how the beauty well be seen

[DieterM]

Thanks, Danik and mahmod, glad you liked it.