Autumn Rains
It is the darkening evening. As is typical of Montreal Rain, it rains incessantly but mildly such that it appears that the world is clouded by a veritable mist. It is cold. The wind sneaks beneath the jacket and kisses with shivers.
It is a delicious cold. One to which you open your eyes and inhale to let every pore become splendidly refreshed. It is a cold that makes the face feel alive. It is the shades of the rainy evening that lend greyness to perception.
I stand on the street corner, awaiting the opportunity to cross...the streelight above me goes on. It is a dim orange and lends this haloed image to my immediate surrounding. It feels warm...almost a magical as the drops of water becom illumined as they fall - jewels from above.
I make my way to the underground tunnels that lead to the metro station. Its an entire replica of the world above. The stores all open with their bounty overflowing. The potent fragrace of coffee and the sensual smell of cinamon that one can almost taste 'pon the tongue.
The wild fragrance of citrus from the juice stall and the foresty odour of the flower shop.
The dim lights of the cafes near the train station and the haunting melodies emanating from random speakers.
The paintings...the saxaphonist chucked into an empty corner, the guitarist in the aisle.
The rush of warm air that hits your face as you enter the metro area...unbearably warm!
Streams of people running by...gathered at the train line as though gathered on the shore of some river...a journey to be taken.
The distant rumble now faint...like a mild recollection when one hears a familiar song.
Then the Torrentious noise of the train storming forth to greet its people - the flood of memory when a visage is beheld.
Then the journey home...a journey in time, the reliving of an experience of a life that once was but is no more.
And home...where we sink beneath our blankets, into the warmth of our bedfull of dreams...then to tommorrow when we will spin more memories to pass the white hours.
It is the darkening evening. As is typical of Montreal Rain, it rains incessantly but mildly such that it appears that the world is clouded by a veritable mist. It is cold. The wind sneaks beneath the jacket and kisses with shivers.
It is a delicious cold. One to which you open your eyes and inhale to let every pore become splendidly refreshed. It is a cold that makes the face feel alive. It is the shades of the rainy evening that lend greyness to perception.
I stand on the street corner, awaiting the opportunity to cross...the streelight above me goes on. It is a dim orange and lends this haloed image to my immediate surrounding. It feels warm...almost a magical as the drops of water becom illumined as they fall - jewels from above.
I make my way to the underground tunnels that lead to the metro station. Its an entire replica of the world above. The stores all open with their bounty overflowing. The potent fragrace of coffee and the sensual smell of cinamon that one can almost taste 'pon the tongue.
The wild fragrance of citrus from the juice stall and the foresty odour of the flower shop.
The dim lights of the cafes near the train station and the haunting melodies emanating from random speakers.
The paintings...the saxaphonist chucked into an empty corner, the guitarist in the aisle.
The rush of warm air that hits your face as you enter the metro area...unbearably warm!
Streams of people running by...gathered at the train line as though gathered on the shore of some river...a journey to be taken.
The distant rumble now faint...like a mild recollection when one hears a familiar song.
Then the Torrentious noise of the train storming forth to greet its people - the flood of memory when a visage is beheld.
Then the journey home...a journey in time, the reliving of an experience of a life that once was but is no more.
And home...where we sink beneath our blankets, into the warmth of our bedfull of dreams...then to tommorrow when we will spin more memories to pass the white hours.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home