The sky works up to
a familiar rich blue,
arches over street dogs,
tourists, stray passers-by.
Open windows give out
preludes by Chopin,
plates being washed.
In the give-and-take
of our corner shop,
they know where
we're coming from.
By Дом на Киното,
there’s another home
in Irish rebel songs
and ‘Into the Mystic’.
Silhouetted now,
we’re drinking beer.
Sunset echoes
the colour of trams.
It’s fine, I’m
saying,
we don’t need
a taxi,
we can walk
from here.
Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips
