Към септември/Towards September

The slightest chill in the night air might be

autumn’s first breath or thoughts

of imminent departure – and I am trying

not to count how many more times

I’ll pass the building with its red display

announcing the current temperature.

The cyclepath’s emptiness stands in

for anticipated regrets – but then,

here I am again at home, where,

through the spill of courtyard light,

a bat is weaving figures-of-eight:

a surprise visitor to our block

and a reminder that possibilities

still unfurl across the distances

like a view of autumn hills.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Случайно/By chance

Somewhere on Graf Ignatiev or Shishman Street,

posies of wildflowers laid out on a tray:

brought in from the country, they’re almost lost

against another era’s architectural promises.

I was on my way to somewhere else,

but what if I’d stopped, bent down and chosen

one of those transplanted bouquets?

If I’d crossed the street where I’d meant to,

I wouldn’t even have seen them.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Сезонни игри/Seasonal games

Strewn amongst green crowns

below the balcony, horse chestnuts

are almost ripe here in August.

Our best conkers came from trees

around the church: they fell

and split on the asphalt path,

dark hearts in pulpy flesh,

like promises of future triumph.

There were tricks, yes, and theories:

soaking or baking them into hard skulls

to crack against each other –

and rapping our own knuckles

for our autumn playground sport.

Somewhere in a different part

of the wood, I was telling you this

as you tried to fathom the rules

of another improvised game.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Цветя от балкона/Flowers from the balcony

When you come I’ll bring you flowers from the balcony –

the pink ones whose name I can’t remember

but which bloom throughout the summer

even in the hottest weeks when pavement surfaces blister.

It’s not much of a gift (you can see that colour splashed

across the apartment block facades in any street)

but they’re the ones that grew then budded then opened

these papery petals all the time that I’ve been waiting.

You could say that they’ve measured out the days and weeks

but that would be to burden them with a weight

they don’t deserve: they are flowers, after all,

from the balcony and here is a vase you can put them in

and the table where you can leave them

in the first few minutes after you arrive.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips