Running ahead of a stormfront,
these unladen clouds might be
the herd of wild mules we passed,
smashed windows of vacant factories,
jammed trams along Алабин.
Pink granite, pink concrete:
peaks behind Карлово blocks
appropriate last sunlight.
Two boys walk home across
sandy moorland marooned
among earthmovers, locomotives
and a logo’d container
from a long-bankrupt firm.
We’re gone in an instant –
rasping through tunnels
that bring us out into night.
Over one-lev espressos,
he leans in and says: “The thing
with this whole country is
it holds too many poems.”
Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips
