Monday, 20 February 2017

Бели цветя над София/White flowers over Sofia

                                            As ice melts into mastika, a soft torus forms,
                                            billows into clear liquor, turns it to cloud.
                                            We’re already high, up here on the top floor
                                            where windows give out on scalloped roofs
                                            and the rain that was drizzling has thickened
                                            to flakes that drift between tall buildings.

                                           For the moment, the first few days of spring
                                           are spent and all that we remember are
                                           conversations that spiral like weather effects.

                                           We’ve been walking through future anthologies
                                           and now, in this almost empty restaurant,
                                           we’re here, we’re talking, we’re almost home.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

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