Two green flecks of light –
they're spring finches –
flit and dart above the heads
of kids out dancing the xopo
in the shadow of Vitosha.
It’s May –
and a conflict
of anniversaries plays out
against the logic
of the weather.
Who’d predict
that, in saving his skin,
I’d be hit
by some anonymous force,
laid up by it?
You can’t always see
everything coming.
Least of all, fists
or the pink spray
of flowers put out
to gather up
these flecks of spring light
that are ripening
our neighbour’s cherries.
