Cola and Kvass
Napoleon was here, the tour guide says.
Distant forests shine copper and gold;
the churchyards have plastic bouquets
on each grave; a skinhead in combats
gets off a bus, holding a bag from Lidl.
We are crossing the European Plain,
we read on our phones. A Stetson hangs
down the tour guide’s back; he streams
tracks by Rag’n’Bone Man and Ugniavijas.
Willow leaves blink silver in the breeze.
houses are tucked under corrugated roofs;
brick churches have white stucco spires.
We admire the name of the River Sesuvis;
at lunchtime we drink cola and kvass
while Johnny Cash sings Man in Black.
Vapour trails cobweb the sky as we google
to-and-fro armies and empires. Tractors
gleam outside John Deere showrooms;
a woman prays at a carved wooden cross.
Now we are free, the tour guide says.