Bruce McRae

The calm forests and skies´ majesties.
These goes unnoticed in McGinty´s Bar,
and still an hour until the noon rush.
God moves his hand over the marvelous waters
while the streetsweeper orders a glass of ale,
the old sop at the end of the bar since opening
and he discussing basketball and backsides,
a magnificent light touching the smoke-
stained curtains, a fly buzz-bombing the window.
The blue and green of the world turns
through the vast and velvety cosmic void
as an on-leave sailor lights his cigarette.
The girl behind the bar makes the littlest sigh,
no more than the breath of a swallow.