Looking for Pawo

The neighbours' music pulses through the wall-

they have bad taste. Restless, I tie my shoes

and leave. Drawn downhill by traffic white noise

on Lewes Road, the street no different now

than when I taught myself this city through

a bus window two years ago. I walk.

 

Saint Peter's Church throws shadows on my walk;

a welcome tunnel through the humid wall

of April sunlight bursting madly through

a long, restraining winter. Skilled, my shoes-

avoid the clamour of the Laines for now-

they pick their way toward the sea's hushed noise.

 

Finding a bench removed from tourist-noise

I recognise the stones on which I walk:

This spot, where Amy (Masters student now)

once ran too fast to stop before the wall

of over-eager waves absorbed her shoes.

She traipsed back with her socks soaked through.

 

I smile and watch the memory play through

then leave, disturbed by heartless seagull noise.

They strut with menace, cracked like beggars' shoes,

their copper eyes are acid as I walk

away. A firing squad on the sea wall

takes wing, and I'm back up on the road now.

 

I crave the heaving overcrowded Laines now;

the sweating hippies drift serenely through

saxophone alleys a nagchampa wall

and everywhere their vivid flavoured noise.

The cobblestones feel wonderful to walk

on; press conspicuously at my shoes.

 

Identifying Pawo by his shoes

untied and frayed, pausing, he sees me now.

Hello dear man! Embracing when I walk

to greet him, wisdom peering softly through

meek orange robes rustling above the noise

around us, in the shade cast by the wall.

 

My shoes flash quick as I hurry home through

Brighton, inspired now by every noise

and sight and thought, and I could walk through walls.