Rainy Day Women Dreaming
Outside, the rain-washed day dulls to evening's end. The traffic crowds, arguing, in the damp, dim street.
Inside, I muse over journal, mull over coffee...sink into reverie.
Looking out...or is it in...I keep seeing the ghosts of a past almost but not quite before my time, rattling by; haunting, beckoning.
I see the ghosts of toast rack trams, faded cream and green with rust brown roofs, rattling over rails up Broadway. Women bustling by in opaque plastic raincoats and pink umbrellas; men in dripping hats and damp-shouldered sports coats.
Time...time to go...I launch out, into that wet, dark evening of dreams. In button-up raincovers my shoes glow against the black pavement, tap-tapping to the tram. I see my hand, starkly white, grasping the rail, cold and wet; the concertina doors stiff and awkward. Inside, pale, damp faces stare up like ghosts from pleated plastic rain bonnets. They shuffle up unwillingly, too wet, too miserable; shrinking inside to find some inner place of dry.
Outside the rattling, rain-streaked glass, dark terraces and tenements wind by, bleak and barren-faced. From under balconies, their narrow windows stare like sunken eyes, still dark and for the most part empty, but some faintly lit with a dull, yellow light from behind cheap curtains.
Inside, I know, there will be pink and green tea cosies waiting forlorn on laminex tables, china ornaments will glow dimly on sideboards over empty grates. Headlights will drag shadows at odd angles over cold, damp walls.
One of those dark, lonely terraces, I know, will be mine.
My key slides into the lock; the door opens... onto the narrow, cold hallway I knew would be there.
I peel off wet things like a wet skin, leaving pools of water on the lino.
In the kitchen I flour and crumb the cutlets before making tea. The kettle sings mournfully in the gloom. I stay in the dark; safe by evening's last light through an uncurtained window and the blue flame of the gas stove. Muffled sounds from the street steal through the half-open fanlight; the shushing of tyres; the tapping of heels.
I huddle before the kero heater, breathing in its pungent fumes; muse over diary, mull over tea...sink into reverie.
Looking out...or is it in...I keep seeing her, that other woman, far off in a far world that might have been but wasn't...or was it?
Dreams or memories?
Inside, I muse over journal, mull over coffee...sink into reverie.
Looking out...or is it in...I keep seeing the ghosts of a past almost but not quite before my time, rattling by; haunting, beckoning.
I see the ghosts of toast rack trams, faded cream and green with rust brown roofs, rattling over rails up Broadway. Women bustling by in opaque plastic raincoats and pink umbrellas; men in dripping hats and damp-shouldered sports coats.
Time...time to go...I launch out, into that wet, dark evening of dreams. In button-up raincovers my shoes glow against the black pavement, tap-tapping to the tram. I see my hand, starkly white, grasping the rail, cold and wet; the concertina doors stiff and awkward. Inside, pale, damp faces stare up like ghosts from pleated plastic rain bonnets. They shuffle up unwillingly, too wet, too miserable; shrinking inside to find some inner place of dry.
Outside the rattling, rain-streaked glass, dark terraces and tenements wind by, bleak and barren-faced. From under balconies, their narrow windows stare like sunken eyes, still dark and for the most part empty, but some faintly lit with a dull, yellow light from behind cheap curtains.
Inside, I know, there will be pink and green tea cosies waiting forlorn on laminex tables, china ornaments will glow dimly on sideboards over empty grates. Headlights will drag shadows at odd angles over cold, damp walls.
One of those dark, lonely terraces, I know, will be mine.
My key slides into the lock; the door opens... onto the narrow, cold hallway I knew would be there.
I peel off wet things like a wet skin, leaving pools of water on the lino.
In the kitchen I flour and crumb the cutlets before making tea. The kettle sings mournfully in the gloom. I stay in the dark; safe by evening's last light through an uncurtained window and the blue flame of the gas stove. Muffled sounds from the street steal through the half-open fanlight; the shushing of tyres; the tapping of heels.
I huddle before the kero heater, breathing in its pungent fumes; muse over diary, mull over tea...sink into reverie.
Looking out...or is it in...I keep seeing her, that other woman, far off in a far world that might have been but wasn't...or was it?
Dreams or memories?
posted by Paula at
11:09 pm
3 Comments:
Paula you are a poetess/weaver of words that possess such strength and presence, words that stir and move me to depths previously unknown. Uncharted territory that is somehow safe, despite any dark corners or shadows.
Thank you for sharing. Your imagery is of such power that all my senses are alert and alive - buzzing with the energy you have captured.
Love you Sister :)
Oh I agree with you Pat! Eye of the storm that's what she is. A point of focus, a lens that reveals moments of beauty and mystery that infuse me with sense of wonder and love of life :-)
Cheers Marit :)
Indeed we are blessed by the gift of Paula :)
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