Wet morning in May
Petals from a flower
lay strewn around an empty glass vase.
Through the French windows
rays of morning sun illuminate the room.
figure traced out of the landscape
walks quietly by
while leaves fallen from a tree
rustle in the wind.
An accumulation of stained glass and terra cotta
lights up the stately Victorian villas
but like waiting for Mr Nobody
all the vistas lead to a dead end.
A cast of an Italian bust
looks out of an open window.
We are not in Italy
but in a languishing London suburb.
the Gods look on
a silent play is being acted out.
The players are not unwilling.
They do not know they are acting.
street is a stage
empty but for voices of quiet derision.
The Big City is not far away, waiting
to consume all with ever-reaching tentacles.
© Charles Jobson. For permission to re-use contact firstname.lastname@example.org.