An afternoon

Feet aching

I folded myself onto a bench

the sun pressing gently on my head

wind curling through the garden’s trees.

Blackcurrant cider

a plate of salad

small anchors in the drifting day

I tried to walk with ghosts

of scholars and poets

along the university paths

but wonder slipped away

caught in the weight of glass cases

treasures stolen

bellies of empire fed on trade of slaves

Vanity gleams in marble

in gold-framed pride.

The church doors too

silent, cold

less holy than the sea-worn chapels

of my own coastal town

where faith breathes

without grandeur

The afternoon held me

sun and wind soft against my skin

but my thoughts wandered elsewhere

to frailty, to history,

to the quiet ache

that lingers even in beauty.