The Feast of Flags

Blue and red

Collide

On the steps

Of statues,

Ears pound with the

Rain of fireworks

That could compete

With winter storms,

And I can hear,

I can hear

So much,

But the words;

I can

Understand

So little.

But my eyes understand

The celebration of life,

Beneath the fire of

The August sun,

What could be better

Than champagne showers

And arguments fought with paint?

My English veins chill

Amongst Mediterranean eyes,

As I, the observer,

I the foreigner

Stand amongst the crowds,

Do they notice me?

Do they notice the language I speak

Is not their own?

Amongst the houses, faces

Clamour for a better view

As the dust settles

And formality returns

To the bullring,

The town’s eyes all see

As one, and widen

In awe; the proud choir

Singing, chanting

Of their patron

Begins its mammoth run

Across street and stone;

The red sea parts,

And from the glowing church

The hands of the sky

Applaud,

As scattered confetti drowns all

In forgetfulness

Of their beds.

And in the faint glow

Of dawn

The shops slumber behind their shutters,

The streets swept clean

Of debris,

But not of devotion.

Be Sociable, Share!

•