In a tide of yellow and red,
I staggered with a brass band mob
at the surging Carnival.
I felt the sound of drums
and the thud of my head
as the girls lifted up their skirts
and laughed
at me.
Crammed into the Bonte Palet
with booming frogs,
I supped the pouring ale of centuries;
I tore myself away from the prancing,
leapt into a cab with a cackling driver
to make it to the dimmed suburbs.
Across this field,
you could barely feel
the joy and antics
of the Brabant people
in the town.
Down Palestrinastraat,
Vivaldistraat,
I groped.
Along Mozartsingel,
past Bachstraat
and Chopinstraat
to Wagnerlaan,
my heart began to ache
with the lack of music
and dancing.
On to Beethovenlaan
and Verdistraat
to Brucknerstraat,
the curtains twitching
as I staggered,
with folk songs gone
and my tongue
emptied of lyrics.
To Schubertsingel
and, at last,
Cesar Francklaan,
the sudden silence
of a drowned village,
an orchestra shot dead
with the bullets of icy tears
from blind windows,
sullen neighbours
and their droning hymns.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
