Palimpsest

Hazelton Summer

 

Wandering through the pathways of Hazelton,

Late at night when the crowds have thinned

And all the nine-to-five-ers are safely home,

We walked hand-in-hand

Walking as one,

A moving embrace that only we could see.

We tasted the all heady flavours of Yorkville,

Drew in the scent, felt the exotic lure

Of incense and hidden secrets,

Tablas, sitars and tinkling zills

Before it was soured by time

And mimicry.

Down the darkened stairs from Bay

We descended into the subterranean lanes

With a frisson of fear and a hint of excitement.

We were trespassing in a foreign land

Of the strange and the wondrous. 

Gems glittered from their pedestals,

Tempting passersby to stop and stare.

Impossible silks and flowing satins

From impossible lands

Fashioned by improbable hands

Floated behind glass walls.

Artworks by the avante-guard graced the walls

Amid plastic palms that looked so real.

At times you could hear the ocean’s call.

Figures from foreign lands,

Their shapes caught mid-stride on distant sands

Their forms carved of odd, dark woods

And mystery.

Leopards stopped mid-snarl mid-leap and glassy-eyed

Stood guard at savannah doorways.

Macaws sat motionless on their perches

Caught in silent mid-caw.

The ceilings were low and the passages

Narrow as subterranean caves

Where tiny shops with pints, quarts and glassy carafes,

All rainbow hued with magic potions,

Stood row-on-row on shelves of teak.

We stopped for crepes and a glass of wine,

Red for me and Chardonnay for you.

We gazed across the table 

And let our fingers touch,

In pure Hollywood mimicry

A spark crossing before they met.

Then on to a shop of vinyl treasures

That featured only classical works.

I was in a heaven of sounds

And with you at my side.

The spirit of Yorkville was still there

Hidden deep, not hard to find.

Smokey coffee shops and storefronts 

That once showcased dancers

Shimmering in sequins and fringes.

Lanes that went nowhere in particular,

Following the scents of foreign brews.

Victorian street lamps sputtering gas

Cast a dim and shifting glow

That cast a shadow of Dickens

Through the fog.

Yorkville was brash and haughty,

Caught up in the spirit of the times.

Hazelton was intimate,

The softer side of the sixties.

It must have been good

Else why would this memory 

Still bring a tear?

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