Weaving

I thread my thoughts
through winding streets,
following the pack as
they chase and veer,
hooting and hollering,
owning the turf.
Bored, I turn and stroll
casually the other way,
weaving between
harried business folk,
and hurried shoppers.
Momentarily I join
a parade, out of step
and fumbling my props,
with no idea
what we’re celebrating.
I make a rapid exit,
slipping down
a narrow alley
between tall, elegant
buildings with
shuttered windows.
Running now,
I burst into an open plaza
surrounded by cafés;
on the flagstones
their tables and chairs
are shaded by brightly
coloured parasols.
Flowers hang in baskets
and a fountain plays
in the centre of the square
while pigeons peck
lethargically at scraps.
Not a soul is visible.
I sit down on the carved
stone edge of the fountain;
bathe my weary feet
and spool my thoughts
back in.

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