Albania

by Aidan Andrew Dun

alb

‘Whew:
Costa Brava!’
I go flippantly
passing a workman
lounging happily
along proud trench
(London clay unpacked)
near the park, perfectly
relaxed in hardearned
April sunshine:
there for all
appreciated by few.

‘We have to chill’
I add quite seriously
‘adapt whenever
we can in this life!’
not expecting
sunbather to react:
yet he laughs out
too.

‘Where exactly
are you from
may I ask?’
I question, charmed.
‘Albania’ says he
twenty-years-old
suntanned from
outdoor task
student probably
doing philosophy
learning of trouble
in the worldwide
hole.

‘Okay’ (goes me
still disarmed)
‘Albania
semantically at least
linked closely
with Britain
as a matter of fact.’
‘How?’ says he.

‘Albion the White:
the island’s mythic
name long ago.’

‘Aha!’ says he
‘happy to know!’

‘Why so?’

‘Because I live
in Albion Road
not far from
here, just near
Butterfield Green!’
noon-sun
flashing from
eyes white-hot
with wonder
like mine.

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