The
Mud-Coloured Beret
He stands beside
A pyramid of apples
Close by
The market door.
‘Are these apples
fresh?’ he asks.
‘They are, I bought six
Only yesterday.’
‘Are you South African?’
‘No, I am a Kiwi.’
‘From the South Island?’
‘Yes.’
He is tall,
More than six feet,
His skin is clear
And olive.
‘Are you going
To buy
A bag of apples?’
I ask.
‘You speak,
So nicely,’ he says.
But his presence
Is not quite present.
I wonder,
‘Is he lost
Or sad, or drugged,
Or is he ill?’
He wears a
Beret, mud-coloured
Pulled low over
His ears.
There is no smile,
A guiless naivety
Searches
My face.
‘Is there something
I can do?’
‘No, no,
No, no.’
‘I must buy
The apples now, I
Thank you, that
You stopped to talk to me.’
Pam Laird
No comments:
Post a Comment