Tony Williams

The Bowling Green The Sycamore

Even the flies are broken-hearted here,

where every fact is likewise uncheckable.

They write to the council, which replies

in ifs and buts and not in your areas.

So the food they land on may or may not be off,

and if on it still may not be edible.

They lay their eggs unsure of their line

and falter off across the park’s uncertain weather,

humming their one-note arias, ostensibly wertfrei,

eyeing four thousand windswept recs traversed

by the same white dented rail along the lethal path

that leads towards the shops of Rigormortisville.

But who’d be fooled by flies? That bank of drizzle

Sunday’s ref just waved across the touchline knows

far more than they do, but is still less eloquent.

If you could look at it from above — had hired a microlight

or saddled a heron — you’d see it was the faces of the recent dead,

drifting over their dead city. They cannot form words.

By the bowling green the sycamore the wax fruit the usual

drips with weight, the wind flutes its illusions.