remains of the day

(photo: courtesy of roxana)
In Queen’s Street
on Friday night
– lights only just blossoming
but already with the pomegranates
of shows for adults only –
among the herds of cars
a yellow
inflatable balloon
was bouncing about
with what remained of its helium soul,
still two lives left,
amidst the song of armour
bouncing with yellow
balloon fright
in front of wheels
and behind wheels,
incapable of salvation and
incapable of destruction,
one life left,
half a life left,
just a molecular trace of helium,
and with its last ounce of strength
searching with its string
for a small child’s hands
on Sunday morning.
---Miroslav Holub.

And what remains of our world? A yellow balloon, a clown in the moon, something of the soul's gifts, Sunday mornings-at least we were young then-with their halted clocks and framed time. Remembrance days, and feathered words. The mirror, because we were, mistakenly, on the left then. A star, a star so poorly drawn on the wall; a piano, unplayed. A few cold notes from Once in Royal David's City.

The table's set; everyone's late. We shuffle about like ghosts. A square of light bends to get on the lip of a plate. The rag and bone man safely in his horse-drawn cart, on his last rounds, disappearing down the street. Never to be seen again. Exiles are a dying breed.The rag-and-bone shop (of the heart) closed down. The small sighs before eleven. The soul's tinsel shimmering, uselessly.

Argentina's sunk. Wales, too. Hold up your hands, and let me fall, why don't you?