Ennui
a melancholic ennui
The sundial leans into the wrong hour,
its shadow spilling
like ink across the stones.
It marks not time,
but the absence of it.
Shadows wander about
or stand their ground,
as if unsure
whether to stray or stay.
They carry the weight
of conversations
that never began.
Would you surrender forever
for a moment alone?
The question drifts
through the courtyard air,
unanswered,
flinging itself into the wind.
A woman at the far bench
traces the rim of her coffee cup
as though it were a coastline.
Her eyes follow
an invisible map —
one that leads
only back to here.
Somewhere,
a child’s kite
hangs motionless in the sky,
its string slack,
its colours fading
into the same
grey hour.
between the hours
The Yawn Between Hours
The plaza holds its breath.
A wind gathers,
but only enough to lift
the corners of yesterday’s paper.
I walk the edge —
stone to shadow,
shadow to stone —
smiling the smile
I made a couple of hours ago,
still warm in its pocket.
Visitors pose for a photograph
they will put off
for another hour,
or another day.
The fountain repeats itself,
water folding into water,
circles without departure.
Somewhere,
a sundial leans into the wrong hour,
its bronze hand
always too late.
The yawn arrives without warning,
a soft collapse of the face,
a brief surrender to the weight
of the afternoon.
And yet,
in the far corner,
a child’s shout
breaks the air —
a spark that rises,
then falls back
into the slow turning
of the plaza’s breath.
.