A goods train rolls past with old testament thunder.
In the breeze, the golden awning shades the seat beneath;
a hunched up blue bolster balances the composition.
I wonder who once set up court here and heard
the same tücskök by the thin and sandy Rákos
in the heat of the afternoon, wearing big
blue velvet flouncy hats and thick stocking hose.
In the afternoon, we walk through next door’s garden
to visit Otto, whose friend’s funeral is today.
Making ready for this once in a lifetime event
in his unshaven state, he greets us in his dressing gown.
Olympic Judo is on the telly. His friend was just 58.
Our enquiry about the house is mundane,
(yet these two disparate ideas can happily co-exist)
in that a garden boundary runs through
a discarded leviathan of a wagon
abandoned without a thought to legal right.
No one remembers how it got there.
Growing older, our surrogate families of youth
have been supplanted by surrogate cultures.
I’ll never have or desire a flag to live beneath.
Copyright © Frank Gillougley 2016