It's Still Life

An Alley in Old Cartagena

I will forever
be in your red clay bricks,
amongst a thousand footsteps.
Tread upon and equatorial bake.

I want to be part of your
streets, of cobbled narrows,
and alleys into gardens. My secrets
coveted by heavy doors of wood

caramelised brown by the sun.
I count centuries of growth
in a stretch of bougainvillaea;
it’s drooping, exhausted by heat,
oppressed into waves along

sun-bright walls.
And I listen to fragile sadness
soaked into milk-white stucco,
like lips, cracked and muted
by another searing afternoon.

A guitar plays. It’s a silhouette
of a rendered shadow, distilled
and pure and soft. Maybe it’s
just a ghost. A freckled hand.

I stroll through long shadows,
silent as sleep, as if on tiptoe.
Do not disturb slumber tucked
into a shady corner. It’s a cool
mercy, this untangling of history.

Day 13: Write about a city. Photo by Gus LDN on Unsplash. CC:00