A 1920s photo of Wellington Avenue,
of a succession of shops long gone,
of a little girl holding a ball
like a teased-out, coaxed-out dawn
standing by a lamppost, at the corner,
the heart of sparse passersby, warm air,
store-studded blocks, six, maybe seven
meeting the church still there…
Her face – half-bright, half in shadow…
Is she squinting merely, the lips upturned?
Does a tinge of pensiveness hum in her eyes?
Does summer or verging-on-summer
sound her fruition in a playful smile?
Does hope, expectation dream a part
in the joy? Or does joy alone
dazzle shadowless in the heart?
The 1920s photo, among others,
was on Wellington but a week ago,
their paragraphs of Verdun history
galloping but a week ago…
The wood’s blank stare is in their place
and a saw asserts itself within that space.
On a balcony four, five houses down
a tinge of pensiveness, a frown
and middle age have found a face,
the woman dangling a cigarette.
A little boy under her bounces a ball
as though it were a different world –
or his only world, his all.
Nearby a smile plays on the face
of a little boy, his father
blowing bubbles as though to humour him.
Does the stream of events now
reach back – and help create the girl?
Or does a trace, grace of the girl
look through these eyes, loving now –
bouncing ball and bubbles
streaming upward, glistening in the sun,
maybe dreaming of the 1920s
and May of 2021?
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