Galway Review 8 - April 2020

Ian Watson v
Blurred Snow
Slush in January in Berlin.
I pull my wheelie case through grit.
At traffic lights I swing it in a dribbling arc
from pavement to street, street to pavement,
steering it clear of the brown ex-slush
collected in inky puddles.
Heading for the hotel entrance,
I see George Best, alive as you or me.
He walks towards me, with his three-day beard
his kindness and his coal-coloured greatcoat
and the walk that was only his.
He gets to the heavy door before me,
shoves it open, strides through the lobby like
the star he is. So the door swings back and
catches the shoulder not pulling my case.
At the lift he turns and smiles,
the similarity shot through.
No, George, it couldn’t have been you.
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