Moscow is milling with watermelons.
Everything breathes a boundless freedom.
And it blows with unbridled fierceness
from the breathless melonvendors.
Stalls. Din. Girls’ headscarves.
They laugh. Change bangs down. Knives
and a choice sample slice.
̶ Take one, chief, for a long life!
Who’s for a melon?
And just as tasty and just as juicy are
the capbands of policemen
and the ranks of motor-scooters.
The September air is fresh and keen
and resonant as a watermelon.
And just as joyfully on its own tack
as the city-limit melon-multitudes,
the earth swings
in its great string bag
of meridians and latitudes!
About this poem
This poem is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.