Old Poole and different worlds

I love contrasts, moving from one world to another - I suppose this is one of the reasons I like flying in a jet - in the space of a few hours, a day or so at the most, I am whirled from one culture to another - in the morning, I am shivering under icy skies, hearing the sound of sullen traffic on a ring road - I can see a loathsome headline in the Daily Mail - in the afternoon, I am sitting by a lake, under a flawless blue sky, warmed by mild airs - I can smell wood smoke - I can only understand a tiny portion of the language I hear spoken around me -

But it's contrasts of any kind which delight me - it's the thought of being under cover, passing through passport control unchecked and unseen - 

In Poole, I like to walk between two worlds - there's the world of Falkland Square, and the market at the top of the old High Street - I pass by girls with big earrings, frowning at their mobiles - a Big Issue vendor from Bosnia sways back and forth, singing Big Issue, Issue, Issue - young men drink from cans of Red Bull - a mum hands her boy a Dunkin Donut - I can smell onions, sizzling on a griddle - 

I walk past by a street person, sitting on a blanket, shared by his gentle dog - I once saw a sleek pitbull tear off one of the dog's ears - the young woman who owned the pitbull sashayed off, swearing shrilly - the vision of this lycra sheathed harpy haunted my dreams for weeks - 

But just a few hundred yards away, there are peaceful, deserted, streets - spare Georgian town houses face a church screened by dark trees - a weather vane rises up from the tower - the vane is composed of a fish with a looped tail, a row of fins like the teeth of a saw - I saw a rook perched upon the N of the vane - 

The facade of one town house is covered prodigiously with ivy and virginia creeper - whenever I see it, I am reminded of Munch's painting - but this house is benign, not the terrible shell stained red in the painting - 

There are almshouses, with tall chimneys - a graceful notice tells you that these buildings have been devoted to the use of the poor for 500 years -

There are no crowds here, in this silent, empty, world - only, perhaps, the invisible figures of 18th Century merchants or sea captains - 

Walking here, last October, there were still some leaves upon the trees - I thought about all of the worlds which surround me - how being invisible is a delight -