Aftermath of Beatriz González’ Colombia of satire and pain

I’m sitting in the dappled shade of plane trees
Whispering feet on gravel, voices in the breeze
Seamus Heaney along for the ride
In an old gas mask bag by my side
A Sax player muscles in on the accordionist’s pitch
Occasioning the aural chaos of fairgrounds

In fifty yards I rest on the Crystal Palace marble steps
Sculpted forms hang like razor shells inside
Tourists pass and re-pass in endless re-invention
Some pose before the lake, feet positioned, slipped hip
The formality of each shot confirms me as a cynic
But I watch each composition, each cover-photo pout

Hypnotising tones of Sax and Handpan play
Hanging in the water-column’s ionising spray
Woven like a ritual dance by players seemingly entranced
They in turn entrance, and I’m closer to the stars today
But never far away, hunger invites its hollow feeling
To lodge till work resumes again in autumn