I see you from the promenade and begin to follow.
At first we mingle with roller-skaters with street performers
with bikini-girls in bikini-lines with poets
with occasional dogs with preachers delivering sermons.
Then with market stalls and taverns with painted gables
with raised cobbles, street signs and hoardings
as we travel deep into the heart of the ancient quarter.
A few streets beyond nuns and relics
we pass through an archway of velvet garlands
you are ten paces ahead, unaware of my presence
as we first stand together on Love Street.
Dusk, in her charcoal shroud follows us through.
She reveals the conical blooms of the streetlamps
as they emanate their soothing orange wash
and chimes the hour of fading light
in her applauding hand of Indian bells.
She leads you across a wooden convex bridge
onto the far banks of an ornamental lake.
I follow quickly, in the remaining chinks of light
trying to embrace you, elusive as a mirage.
But too soon night arrives, in her entirety
to tightly seal the envelope of a day passed.
I lose you, as I first should, on Love Street
I fall to the earth where you last appeared.