Poem

At The Butchers In Colmenar

A framed, blown-up photograph hangs on the wall:

the t-shirted butcher’s son and his wife, on their honeymoon

in Manhattan, the towers in the background, the date:

September 10, 2001..

Behind the counter, a steel door opens: a glimpse

of pale waxy carcasses, smell so thick I could colour it

black-red: the colour of history. Outside, I breathe

warm streets, damp from a recent shower.

An old man swings past on crutches. What do I know

about history? Dawdling under a nearby orange tree -

its perfect glimmering system - I think

of reaching to pluck one.

Mark Granier