Walking along cold indigo streets

Arja Salafranca

I remember walking home
along cold, indigo streets.
They were suburban streets, pavements
made for walking.
People strode home quickly with
parcels and purpose. Or waited for their dogs
to pee against the concrete.
Bright windows showed us the
living rooms and bedrooms of the
English; a corner shop sold expensive
cold drinks and last-minute items.
They recognised us there,
but never said hello.
I remember dark silhouettes of old thin chimneys,
the streetlamps casting
long shadows, the clip-clop of
other people’s shoes on the concrete.
I remember being suspended in time –
jobless, wondering about our
future in a strange land.
Walking beside you, a shadow now. Each of us lost
in our own worries, concerns and wants.
They differed: you were comfortable in this alien place; I
wanted something else,
walking into that wall of cold.
But you came back with me,
even as it hurt you to watch the Thames recede,
or it hurt to catch only a glimpse of the heath
where Keats roamed.
I saw your mouth pulling,
grimacing.
I didn’t care to see the heath.
I remember wearing three layers of clothes,
the aimless walks, the books we read,
how you wanted to stay.
I pulled you back to where we had come from,
but now I can’t forget walking home
along those cold indigo streets.

Previously published in New Coin.

LitNet: 20 December 2005

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