Старият манастир/The Old Monastery

Not far from the city and we’re pulling over

to wait for sheep as they amble up tarmac

for greener pasture, higher ground.

The air makes light work

in mysterious ways: no heat-haze here

now the day’s burnt off – and we’re

away again, the shepherd out of sight.

In the crux of the valley, a tower

and low tiled walls are outlines

of a hermitage; and I’m approaching

again an enclave of a faith

of which I can boast at least

a passing understanding now.

On this day, it’s said, the sky

acquires unusual translucence

for those whose belief allows it.

I can still see your face as,

by tended flowerbeds, the monk

explained how exactly years ago

he looked up through the clouds at God.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Войникът/The Soldier

Because we have not had to make

the same decisions, we see sense

in different places. My father

stands in uniform on concrete

beneath unturning propellers

with his cap at the same jaunty angle.

Politically speaking, of course,

we might – we would – have taken in

an acceptable geography.

At least we now have the chance

to see across those sketched-in borders

and call what we have seen

evidence of something that’s changed.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Слънчогледи (за Великден)/Sunflowers (for Easter)

The sunflowers nod their heads

and you’re insisting we stop

at this scorched roadside

for photographs. One day

they’ll make good

an intermittent memory,

a slight note of disbelief

in seeing again ragged petals,

pincushion faces and yours,

expectant, with comical squint.

So far into summer,

a landscape flooded yellow,

we’re going over ground

from before you were born.

Knuckled flint patches

unturned earth and looking out

through the viewfinder’s chink

I might be puzzling at how

our beginnings connect

to this resurrected field.

The sunflowers nod their heads.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Великден/Easter

Trees against a skyline

foreshadow an ending

from this angle – or that’s

how you might see it.

Coming up with clayed boots

from the road behind

the back of the hill,

there’s something different

in the air – as if I might be

in another time-zone,

drawing a circle

through this wilderness

back to shade upon shade

of palms and oasis gardens

and in an orchard somewhere

branches untouched, apple unbitten.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips