In Front of the Movenpick Hotel

Music by Special Edition


In Front of the Movenpick Hotel

Watching, the world.
Just watching the world go by
from here, Jumeirah, a surprise;
small square table, wicker chair,
little cup wetted with coffee.

A Ferrari, low and crimson, prowls past
coughs to clear its injectors and valves
impatient of the long expensive jam.
A chrome-plated Rolls Royce
stands in front of the hotel,
the driver sleek in shorts and beard.

 Pinch-faced women prick by
on pin-sharp legs, delicate as they step.
Wives, with bird-beak leather masks,
jiggle in sparkly jeans, colourful trainers
worn under close-black, blind-black,
hold hands with their trendy husbands;
brave girls with just a scarf
or even dark, coiled hair.
No father, husband, brother
no male chaperone
just the long black shadow.

Earlier were mothers and maids
with babies in highly sprung buggies,
grey-haired couples in slacks and shorts,
the occasional suit and tie.

A Big Red Bus sweeps by with diesel roar,
bemused tourists cluttering the top deck.
The street, granite sets, the pavement
granite squares in glorious colour
and I think of the simple monochrome pattern
of chewing gum and broken, concrete slabs.

I watch a man hosing a gully
and two square metres around.
He’s been at it an hour or more.
It makes a change from sitting
in his two by two concrete box
lifting the barrier for exiting cars.

Now sun dives into the sea.
Stout-limbed lusty boys
wearing shorts that shout “Yeah!”
go by with beautiful-limbed girls
wearing shorts that shout “Hey!”


She brings my second espresso,
the air darkens, lights brighten.
Some go by with purpose
some just shooting the breeze.
I watch, just watch.

© Anthony Fisher November 2012