No Lady in our Dame

Submitted by: Shane Cahill

No Lady in our Dame

Autumn. 
Barreling in now against a backdrop of a forgettable summer.
Leaves, dance a frenzy
before making a wet slap and whoosh then vanish down the gutter.
Grey-black prismed puddles refract neon and 
The default setting is vandal.
The city commences and turns on itself.
Awake now, her homily aloft.
Gaining her strength. 
Tone shrinking the flock.

With creatured-cold movement her procession begins. 
The veil thin upon her, the journey's end.
Dragging and limping with matted black hair.
Cursing and screaming. Pounding and heaving for air.
No news of salvation. No doomsday call. 
She takes leave of herself , the saviour of all.

The wind, sleet and engines pursue their mighty roar.
Rickety conveyors of bikes, cars and buses startled to a stop. 
And jut. And stop. And jut again.
And go ab-solutely-nowhere.
Time steam-rolls down the clock.
Red and green traffic lights, like starburst. 
Amber blinkering, saintly and fuzzy in the distance.
Licit faces strain against the conditions, 
 and play dodge with the spent rigs strewn around. 


Further on, Small camps shelter tin-foil-havens.
It's a welcome but temporary home.  
Beams of street light seek dank dusty air and give glimpses of those with-in. 
Colourful play-like lighters, spent,
adding hope while wading the junk covered floor. 
A lingering scent of smouldering plastic and stale damp cloth and the  
Steam rises from the squatted shapes. Prepped for the cure.
The rock takes hold and soothes their soul. Then back out to the gutter.


The arousal, palpable now. 
The air is thick. 
Crowded buses outperform one another on Dame St, 
and jostle with taxis at the lights.
The rush. 
Still gathering. 
Sucking up its pace at a million miles per hour. 
Humanity unfolds before us, 
Our citizens are on their knees.



By Shane Cahill
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