Fog drapes its arm over the shoulders
of Signal Hill, an old friend bringing home
the one whose frock’s a bit worn
about the edges, who’s lost a century
or two, and how it feels to feel alone.
I could teach it a thing or two;
even the black cat sidling uphill
beside the stairs, won’t cross my path.
Carters may have used this route,
Their horsewhips flailing or brakes smoking,
But I bet they didn’t fear falling.
The hill was only so high, no more
than they could handle, foot-powered and
wooden-wheeled slow-speed progress –
ladders used for tools not goals.
Another set of sideways stairs for stumbling
down, in winter a slide of changing colours,
dodging graffiti and garbage,
and last night’s drunks’ dinners.
The echoes of George’s tawdry revelry
startle well-fed plump pigeons out on
the streets, about their business bobbing heads,
with inconvenient featherless birds
no more than meal-ticket.
Down the harbour, mists have gathered
their tatters together to make a pillow,
sunshine waking up along its edges.
Scattered, the ghosts of Marconi,
of the silent soldiers that sidled
once round the hills. Stilled, the sails that soared
up to meet them, and long since gone.
First light shines, scatters the shadows,
glints on the iron black bars;
decorative but no less purposeful,
if the purpose is to keep us and the water
separate. How could Cabot,
who after all, left home to discover this hill,
have known his name would serve
to remind us of our place?
The buildings behind our backs,
the water waving fare-thee-well,
the fog slipping away like last night’s songs.
LMC
