Isle Des Soeurs, Montreal

A woman stands at the head of the queue. She quizzes
The Francophone black man at length about the cost of
Niagara Falls. He reacts to her every caprice. The
Queue lengthens. His flat face barely shows it’s one of those
Afternoons.

On the island it takes half an hour of pedalling
In circles to find the trail. Which hugs the Saint
Laurent for a klick or two. Scarlet breasted black
Birds, swallows, herons fishing rapids. Then it all
Closes in, dozers chew on trees, another
Condo for the western world. My sister shouts: Did you see
The size of that TV ?

The phone rings and there’s no one there. Only bleeping.
The call of the tamed. No corner shops here. Just super
Marchés. Cars crawl at banal speeds. They are held at bay
By pensioners, inching across the tarmac. They’re dreaming
The liberty of untamed space and the untrammelled speed
Their makers promised.


18.06