That dawning hue that washes bayside houses,
An east-west discerning tint,
Finds Bobby absorbing it warmth.
Straddling a decayed wall of stone
His feet scrape the ground,
Legs in a perpetual swing.
Staring into the slick, dew damp bricks,
Woven threads of St. George Street,
He lifts his head to let the sun burn dry his eyes.
The blurred sting unveils the Convent of Saint Agatha;
A white-washed keep:
Fixed in a compound with green all about.
The Cathedral chimes the half hour.
Seven-thirty.
And each chime a progressing pulse of light
in Bobby’s reverted eye.
Clean, pressed, white blouses;
Navy, wool skirts;
Kindle in the young sun.
And catch the empty stare of a new man
As each passes before him,
Passes through the gate,
Cold black wrought-iron.
A change of age
In an age of change.
Hazy thought of excitement.
Things new, from inside and out.
Ceased now, fixed.
Bobby wants to cry for a moment.
If only what is known
Had been known
It may have
Been a
Separate
Day.
Brief Case Poems (1973-1979)