Monday, April 2, 2012

March Militaire: A Prose Poem? Or merely a metaphor in prose?

“Are you still marching in the mornings?” a friend asked.

Adjusting her earphones, she sets forth, strident strains of Schubert in her head. 

The Waterworks looms nigh, and just as British soldiers once tramped the Plains of Abraham, so she, in her New-Balance shoes, trods Waterwork's plains. 

Parked cars bar the path, but maneuvering with a deftness born of  experience, she averts attack of the side mirrors. To a native she waves a hasty greeting.  Then, determined cadence resumed, stays focused on her mission.

Laying claim at last to the lot end-to-end, regrouping, she plans her strategy before crossing no-man's land – between The Waterworks and  St. Margaret's Hospital.  

Once in hospital territory, advances to its boundary, where, alas, fatigue, ultimate enemy, forces defeat.  Then begins the long retreat home.