By Mark Fiddes

The tai chi seniors are out there again, 

under flame trees, preventing storms  

with hands upturned, 

their backs to rush hour traffic, 

saying ‘no’ to the thousand hurricanes 

that seed the air about them. 

They sway at the speed of seaweed 

in limpid rockpools  

long after the tide recedes 

to counter fast which is the disease 

you catch from a city just by breathing 

or buying a lottery ticket. 

Fast makes life buckle at intersections, 

turns pillows yellow with sweat, 

offers Apples, Apps and Amazons 

because Fast never wants less. 

Fast counts love in terabytes, 

then earns trillions just by being fast. 

Orange blossoms have fallen on grass 

where the tai chi seniors glide 

over canyons, borders and land mines. 

They stroke the nothingness  

before them as if it were a cat 

about to spring off through a window. 

Listen how it purrs, 

how its eyes refuse to meet your own.