. . .

Sitting down

In the shade of an orange tree

With the mosque to his right

and the park to his left,

He takes in the sounds and smells of the square

And revels in the flutter of

An orange blossom

On his balding head,

As he sips the last of his mint tea.

Rising from the bench,

He protects his head

From the scorching sun

With the hood of his Djellaba

As he makes his way towards the junction.

Reaching a set of traffic lights,

He leans on his walking stick –

Waiting for one of the passers-by to notice him.

They pass,

One by one,

To his left,

Then to his right.

The lady with the chirpy voice,

Speaking to her friend on the phone,

Waiting to cross when the lights go red.

Has she noticed him?

If only she did!

Then he would tell her

About the lies

Sprouting from her friend's mouth.

The lights change.

The lady crosses.

The blind man waits.

The young couple giggling

In that haze of new-found love.

Have they noticed him?

If only they did!

Then he would tell them

About the girl's husband,

Lying in wait by the market square.

The lights change.

The couple crosses.

The blind man waits.

A young man approaches him.

"Sir, may I help you cross?"

He nods and lets the boy take hold of his free arm.

Together they make slow progress

Across the crowded junction.

As they approach the other side,

He tells the young man not to worry.

His daughter will not die.

She will live a long and healthy life.

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