Poet-in-Residence sends here a poem to a couple of Irish girls met in a friendly bar. A green and glowing moment. And was it only recently in Barcelona?
The palace of bread and circus
according to the Roman poet.
A place to seat three thousand
according to the information board.
And today a place in the baking sun
where muffled gladiators sweat
and swing their whirring STHILs
and strim the spring green grass.
Notebooked and pointing cigarettes
a bright and breezy crowd arrives
through the whispering poplars
below the unseen buzzard.
Sacks are quickly unzipped
and the tyros fall in
to eat and laugh
to clown and quaff.
Below the stones of the quadrifons
below the prayers to Jupiter
below the unseen buzzard
wine splashes from dark bottles.
And bread is torn.
The crowd begins to cheer.
c - Gwilym Williams
a poem from the 1st P-i-R collection 'Genteel Messages' currently in preparation.