It is Ramadan
and in nearby mosque müezzin sings
and his soothing rhythmic call to prayer
permeates, sweetens sultry summer air,
plane drones lazily overhead,
distant seagulls squawk and screech,
leaves rustle in a whispered breeze,
mimic ebb and flow of salty seas
gently crashing into breakers.
Beneath canopy of softly swaying trees
discarded life snoozes drunkenly
as fellow flotsam sits beside her,
eases bottle from her hand
and washes down remaining cider.
Shoppers compare buys and chatter,
men discuss as women natter (:o]),
children squeal as pigeons scatter
and in the café dishes clatter
amidst the annoying hiss of coffee maker.
Revellers reach their destination
as bus sets down at central station,
girls alight in giggling groups
tottering on their high-heeled shoes,
dressed to the nines to go a-pubbing.
Lads aloud with false bravado,
raid cash machines with credit card so
to impress the girls with apparent riches,
win their hearts and go a-clubbing.
Boy racers cruise with music blaring,
annoying all and pigeon scaring,
cars all souped up and flash with chrome.
Vendors vie, shout Chroni-kell, Big Issue,
accordionist squeezes tuneless air,
church swings out its bells a-ringing,
street singer croons in city square,
and in the distance sirens wailing,
paramedics rescue lads a-ailing,
felled by youth and drink excesses
as girls pass by in tiny dresses.
And in the station
weary workers board their buses,
glad to leave the city rushes,
glad to leave the day behind,
glad that they are going home.
This poem reflects sight and sounds of my city (in which I work – not live) observed across an hour, early evening. The call to prayer of the müezzin is a case of poetic licence as, as yet, this does not happen in the
. I needed to research to discover as to
whether an imam ‘sings’ prayers and found this not to be so and what I hear
(often – and it is truly beautiful) is the imams rhythmic voice, which has the
quality of beautiful music, breaking through into the night air. UK
(I couldn’t find an image to truly represent my hours observations, it was between 7-8pm and broad daylight and all was well with my world as I awaited my bus home. The image is not that of my city.)
This poem also heralds a welcome halt to writers block; oh so many prompts attempted and after a reasonable start, words and thoughts dried up or there was nothing at all.
Shared with the good folk at dVerse Poets Pub OpenLinkNight– thanks dVerse!
Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
Author: Brylcreem 2