Wednesday, May 27, 2009
My sibling, on his way last evening to give a guitar lesson, observed the signs of a brand new election season: politicians' images were pasted to walls everywhere he looked. Wordy assurances dangled under the chin of each grinning candidate.
And then there was a fellow with a microphone- no doubt broadcasting pledges on behalf of some politician or other, as is the custom in Ireland when the speaker has a crowd of reasonable proportions.
My brother approached the crossroads and wondered what would compel any man to stand on a corner as the light dimmed, and bellow political discourse to the clouds. There was no audience, and the fellow was alone with his microphone.
My brother, brimming with curiosity, slowed a little as he went past; he soon saw that there was no microphone at all. The chap was only licking contentedly at an ice cream cone. My sibling rolled away, having arranged to share his knowledge of guitars with an eager student.
Ice cream and music and encounters at sunset, and promises kept: to these we ought to devote entire seasons.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 1:17 PM