on many days i have
walked the streets
of your village of
sycamores and stone
have trodden worn steps
under porticoes, through
pungent arcades
sought for what i could not
articulate –
and in the evenings, at
rough tables
have reconstructed a
barely adequate self
sitting amongst
the commerces of the square –
but when i chanced upon
your laneway of exquisite facades
(was it only today?)
i was drawn deeper,
saw your precious
abode of terrazzo and mosaic,
of royal blues, aquamarines and gold –
saw your wise and wizened head –
tiny, sublime,
observant,
your avian heritage apparent –
you were stern but welcoming,
hopped lightly on your perch,
your spouse now beside you –
a pair in rich plumage –
and i saw the tiled abode
in which you both live –
bright, swept clean, sufficient –
a cage of freedom for two wise birds –
and saw the possibility, for me,
of the end of this repeated
thirst for reconstruction
