Six O'Clock Gate
par Iron Gate Hi-Fi · extrait de l'album Kettle Still On The Fire
par Iron Gate Hi-Fi · extrait de l'album Kettle Still On The Fire
Quarter to five an' di dark still thick,
him foot find di slipper by di bedroom brick,
kettle still on di fire from last night cool,
him pour di cup same way, no sugar, two turn of di spoon.
Him wife turn over, never seh nutten at all,
jus' one hand reach out an' res' pon him shoulder, slow.
Him lace up di boot wid di toe cap bright,
three dollar sock inside, di left one tight.
Gate push, boot gone.
Twenty-five past five, Waltham Park Road empty,
one dog, one handcart, nobody else to see.
Him count di change inna him shirt pocket flat —
forty for di bus, di rest fold up in back.
Di gate man wave him through, same wave every day,
clock at di gatehouse stick pon quarter to eight since May.
Di sea smell come up before di sun come up,
an' di steam from di flask ketch him under di chin.
(Warm.)
Crane stan' up black 'gainst di morning grey,
him put him name inna di book an' walk away.
[Toast]
Hear mi now — nobody nuh see him go,
no drum, no horn, no nobody fi know,
him pass di shop before di shop open up,
pass di church gate, pass di man wid di cup,
pass di pickney bicycle lean pon di wall,
pass di wata truck a wait outside di gate wall.
Six o'clock gate, an' di gate know him foot,
same squeak, same shoulder, same push, same soot.
Him nuh talk 'bout it, him nuh write it down,
him jus' tek di weight an' tek it 'cross town.
Gate push, boot gone.
Him shoulder feel di strap before him lift one t'ing,
heat come down pon di neck like a hand a hold him in.
Behind him inna di kitchen, four mile back,
di kettle still a sit pon di fire, lid a rattle, black.
Gate push, boot gone.
Gate push, boot gone.
Gate swing. Gate still.