AUTOBAHN

   eight Canadian musicians and one German manager
   sweaty and cramped in a dusty van
   sleep-deprived, can't nap, tell jokes to pass the time
   excited as hell

   getting used to these rows of lush trees
   none of them old

   and small hills dotted with red tile roofs
   (animals used to live on the first floor
   you can still smell them sometimes)

   eyes always open for a castle
   watching a village from above

   every now and then green is overtaken
   by shocking yellow fields
   of canola flowers
   rapeseed with a new name

   the van suddenly smells of summer


   SACRED MOMENTS OF STILLNESS

   Hotel Heidehof,
   Ingolstatd, Germany.
   I have a new nickname

   and a second-floor room with down bedding
   but no sleep.
   Jet-lagged still.

   Clanking and banging from a room below,
   light leaking into the alley.

   One hundred and fifty years ago
   it would have been the inn-keeper's wife
   kneading bread for breakfast
   plucking the chicken
   rolling dumplings.
   Not enough time in the day.

   When the morning seeped in,
   changing soft yellow lamplight to blue, then gray
   she would gather up her apron,
   pull off her tired clothes
   and slip into the sauna.

   Later, she would emerge silently,
   rinse herself off with fresh water
   and slide into bed beside her snoring husband,
   smelling of eucalyptus and cedar.

   When she awoke again
   amidst the distant heat and laughter
   of strange men
   she would remember

   the flicker of flame
   the smell of yeast
   and the sound of birds
   sleeping.


   FINGERPRINTS OF BUDAPEST

   river with seven bridges
   gypsies and vocal jazz
   castles loom proudly standing still
   neon lights wink "we're free"

   church rooftop reflects sun like stained-glass windows
   god preserved in gold-leaf
   bullet holes in ornate plaster trim

   near the border
   a W.C. attendant yanks a British tourist out of a stall
   when she doesn't pay
   shouting match in English and Hungarian

   I buy a ceramic doll with a blue dress and elaborate hat
   for my daughter
   though no-one here dresses traditionally

   the masseuse in the hotel
   has no time for shyness
   "Everything off" she commands
   places a tiny towel over some of me
   her eyes are accustomed to nakedness
   her hands know how to calm the bewildered traveler

   nightingales chatter invisibly in tall trees
   openly speaking their minds
   all night
   another band has befriended us
   they know we need to be kissed
   on both cheeks

   at the final show, an Hungarian witch tells my future
   the creases of my palm a map
   of who I am and where I'll go
   in her black olive eyes
   she knows I am also a writer

   "hello" means good-bye

   back in Germany, I find
   smudges of plaster on my clothing -
   fingerprints of Budapest


   OSNABROOK

   Wandering the May festival before the show
   I follow an elderly woman into a church.
   She sits while I stand
   awed by new walls disguised as ancient stone
   climbing upward brick by brick
   to connect with the old ones
   left standing when the Rathausplatz was bombed out.

   Heavy air presses down on my shoulders
   in a dizzying calm.
   Cold quiet prickles my skin.
   My breath slides reverently in and out.

   The woman prays to Mary,
   her fingers clasped together close to her heart.
   Closed eyes see her mother
   huddled over her between pews,
   praying for absolution as walls explode into open sky.

   Jesus hangs
   huge and silent
   in the centre.

   The woman stands,
   lights a candle,
   places it at Mary's feet.
   Dips her finger into holy water by the door.
   A ripple rolls out from the middle, brushes the edge of the basin.
   The dry scrape of footsteps.
   Strains of rock and roll waft in through the opening door
   along with smells of bratwurst and beer.
   Outside
   a flying swing carousel
   spins in a narrowing gyre.
   A maypole casts yellow ribbon shadows.
   A new ceremony of innocence.

   The womans' feet step assuredly over uneven stones
   while mine twist and stumble.
   She rounds a corner and disappears
   into late afternoon light.

   Beside me,
   silhouetted against steeples and bell towers
   that reach up to claim their portion of sky,
   sits a lion
   bird droppings on his small stone head.

   Beyond,
   the church clock clutches time -
   handfuls of gold.


                             Heidi McCurdy - 2002
                             email -  hrmccurdy@look.ca