Draft of a poem of sorts
Sometime into a half-hearted summer,
we're still pinning our hopes
on showers clearing
and redemptive sunshine after rain.
Umbrellas flex along the waterfront –
or, collapsed, poke from a bin.
Across Europe, cities are loud with protest,
though you’d hardly know it here.
Sporadic wi-fi connections bring
stray hints, old news, a photograph.
On edge amongst the package tours,
we’re looking down into
perfect reflections of day-trip boats
moored at the quayside,
seeming ghosts of sunk ships.
Or overlooking the city
from a flat warehouse roof.
It’s temptation back to days –
those days – when, stalled
in this same, familiar light,
you were halfway up the garden path
and she was in shade,
arguing the politics,a few exotic steps across the grass.
Tom Phillips 2013