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When the events that we experience cease to need naming they can become so much more.

.
Walking in the dark.
Rain falls in steady rhythm.
From a blocked gutter overflowing
runoff from the tiled roof
plays tom-tom syncopation on
a suite of plastic containers
awaiting destruction.
Runnels snake down the roadway.
Rippling along
myriad gold reflections,
canons of street lights glimmer;
house lights white in counterpoint.
At a street drain, violins and flutes
dance with the cellos and horns
of a main sewer junction.
Oboes and violas call
where a fractured drainpipe
hoses the pavement below.
While timpany rumble in the background
as a train passes the town by.
Cars come and go
adding the deep bass melody
Brassy impertinent vibrato
as they accelerate to soaring insistence,
drop an octave in passing
and die muted.
I pass my fingers across the strings,
my harp's glissando
curling graceful circles
in the empty air.
Andante, andante.
.
(C) Eryu Gaia 20/11/2000