March days can be superb, autumn crispness
in a mature sun. Late cicada hold chorus
as I walk through the gardens to the city.
Women trundling toddlers smile as I stroll
past, a lone man swings his little girl into
giggles. A tourist couple snap a begonia bed.
A perfect day for a Renoir riverside party.
But Goya rules.
Trains detonate in Madrid.
Sudden death is often our common lot but
this unnecessary slaughter beggars thought.
Before my health deteriorated I delighted in walking down the hill from my home high in the hills thought the Botanic Garden to the city. (I bussed home). The first stanza records such a walk – a lovely day. But that morning’s news was dominated by the explosions on Madrid trains. Some fanatics had decided that innocent commuters, travellers, old, female, male, young, Christian, Muslim and atheist should die.
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