and the pier

on the bridge we pass the people waving flags for the other side. they shout against our chanting and wave signs that don't make much sense to me or the new friend I've made along the way. I carry my own I drew on each side of the cardboard from the cupboard with the pens my brother stole. 'wake up' and 'stop killing children'. the words are fickle fronts and do little for the anger that boils beneath the mask I bring into the crowd on the streets. the opposition calls us terrorists as we pass them in our thousands. we dwarf them without trying though it doesn't matter: they have the fat men with the weapons and the money on their side. the march leads our chants beyond my map of the city I've seen so far, through the arts precinct, down the boulevard of diplomatic consulates on the tram tracks into the afternoon. residents of apartments we pass take to their balconies and open windows to cheer, hanging flags and banners. others curse the crowd and slam their windows closed. we're too loud and should keep our cries off the streets.

at the end of the road we spill out onto the lawn rolling down to the sand. afternoon sun falls on nets of thousands of kites cast between trees on the breeze. a coloured sheet folded for every child killed with our taxes. we disperse and make our way back to our shells for another week of playing life with our jobs and phones and shopping lists. I bide my time and take the boardwalk round the bay, past children running with their kites still soaring high and the pier we said we'd visit. now I've seen it without trying, silhouettes of strangers walking out into the sea and through the windows in the clouds on the horizon. gentle moving blurs of grey that could be us or anyone. the clouds hang low and I leave them alone. even so far out that's enough magic for me. and it's really nice.