The sound of lawnmowers, global, pervasive, mundane, universal.
By the refuse containers, an old woman.
From a distance you can see her diminutive figure, summer lacing shoes, flowing dress with collar, on her head a pink steelon headscarf.
She positions a plastic pail upside down, jumps about on it like a child.
She sinks up to her waist in the refuse, searching deeper and deeper.
She capsizes the container by force, throwing out bags, scraps of material.
She hangs on the metal lips of its green jaws, keeping her balance by waggling her legs. Net shopping bags on the tarmac.
A blond with a little dog looks on, she wants to go up and investigate, take a peek, check what’s in the shopping bags.
She looks around. People are returning from work.
You can’t just go up and pry.
The old woman loses her balance, a vigorous movement of the legs doesn’t help.
She clings on the pail, sways.
She regains her original position, carefully puts her feet down, jumps out,
puts the black bags into the pail,
and the rest into a shopping bag with the logo Boss.
She leaves briskly, looking ahead of her.
The tired lawnmowers wheeze in the sweat of their brow with what’s left of their strength.
The sun, its yellowy red rays at full force, decides to dim their glare.
Anna Maria Mickiewic
Chopin in Manchester
He did not like the smog
He did not like the damp English weather
Or overcrowded Manchester
Standing at the lake in Prestwich
I can feel his longing
Far away from home
Music is dripping like rain from his thin fingers rapidly
In the Gentlemen’s Concert Hall
His statue is silent in Manchester
A frail figure
Is it longing for music or for the homeland?
Other fingers of another musician
Ryszard Bakst is playing Chopin
Anna Maria Mickiewicz