Wednesday, 10 July 2013

10 July Day 27

For Vasilena

This evening, squabbles on the bridge,
contested rights of way:
wheels locked, one cyclist
mouthes off at another,
a pram’s slewed across the pedestrian lane.

Tempers quickened by seasonable heat
disperse in complaints, muttered protests,
fading after-thoughts. Outgoing,
the tide inches back from algae’d banks.


No news again, but photographs online
are reminders of the elsewhere
which friends can see as making good ...

in whose name they have marched:
that much might be deciphered
from mechanical translations.

This evening, boulevards and plane trees,
the hushed rally’s footsteps:
so little for us to go on
in our own “wild country, far away” ...


But this evening, the belief,
reparation, an ordinary square
with tables, coffees, laptops,
and, in diminishing light,
the first sound of voices
and bird flocks startled upwards –
unfamiliar words, Facebook updates,
and then, settling in, a rain of doves.

In this, my own wild country, far away,
backgarden laughter, this evening,
and those easily forgotten complaints.

Tom Phillips

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