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