Friday, 7 June 2019

For Lviv

In West Ukraine
a blue crane
lifts the barley
from the guts of the town.
In this accident of geography
she found the only puddle in the city
and made one hell of a splash.
Blonde and pleated,
tall and static,
a well trod speaker’s corner
she stood.
Her hometown was a
Bureau de Change
above a laundry room.

She could
not have the patience
of the flower seller.
She did not believe
in the sound of the sea.
The hurricane from the away end
blew the crosses from the hilltops
into her psychology,
blew the fuel from the reservoir
and filled her stomping ground.
Statuesque she daily flung
her concrete words ballistic
against the amassed and fascistic.

To mark the tenth anniversary
of her death,
football scarves were laid.
A small boy all neat and auburn
offered his historiography:

Fuck your vile corrupt 

Spat and turned
Into the café he burst
already old enough to drink
5 star Hararava
lit up his cigarette,
eyeballed the old patriots in the corner
who ran off
handing their beer money
to the beggar woman in the street.
He bowed toward her stomping ground
and sniped:

Never admit defeat!

No comments:

Post a Comment