Reading:
Los Molinos Brought to earth by the scrimmage At the carousel and the length of the line At Passports and on the railway familiar chaos, We’re back in the land of the free once more. And as we’ve done so many times before We crash out into Los Molinos To eat and drink a glass or two of wine. Our hosts real Spanish guys We’ve known for years, Their café is the decompression zone Of southern warmth we need before we rise To face the headlines in the morning. Two ambulances rush by, blue lights flashing Sirens wailing. A shriek that hurts my ears Alternating with staccato klaxon cough: A barrage of acoustic pain to clear a way through. Off they go, traffic parting, to attend the scene Of some calamity. Fatal crash on Westway? Probably something more mundane. Overdose? Rough-sleeper dead? Another day… But now our chosen tapas supper’s come. I turn away to my pimientos di padron. More wails outside. Police car charging along on The wrong side of the road. Where’ve they gone? Knifing? Shooting? Violent drunk in A and E? What is wrong with this bloody country! I sink another glass of my habitual House Red Feeling not my usual irritation but friendliness instead Towards those Chinese visitors whose chatter fills the space. Strange that strangers make me feel benign towards the human race!
Peter Lloyd Jones 