Leaning

Men with time on their hearts
Hands in the till of time
Stealing a vicarious future
For the best of motives.

The same city in my dreams,
The same rooftops bear me dreaming
Over the streetscapes.
Even now, when the years have gone lightly
Into the useless calendar of history,
These night-time thoroughfares echo still.

Waiting for a bus or taxi cab
Leaning against metal posts,
Leaning into traffic lanes,
Searching for the opportune moment
Seizing, if not the day, the minute
If only for that long.

Buildings and the wind shear;
Here comes the next bank of weather
The pale and insubstantial cloud that brings the storm.
Trees lean away from inclement weather
Human beings lean towards it.

Run into the teeth of the drowning rain
To get somewhere
Despite it.
Wind coming from the west
Brushes the hair from the face.

© BH 1998

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A little piece from the archives. I found it when looking over the Initialising cycle. I have only a vague recollection of what I was doing in 1998. I remember the feeling of it, though. That and the motif of how humans and trees deal differently with heavy weather. Trees of course are where they are. Humans, maybe, lean into the wind because we think we’re going home despite it. Trees are there already.