We leave Austria
And the roads deteriorate
Overhead cables proliferate
And we are through to
What were the Soviet countries
The houses are smaller, as are the cars
And weeds poke through in any space they can.
We ride out of Budapest
Through the estates
And suburbs,
Then to the river again
With old men fishing
Shirts off
Drinking
In the sun.
Further out still
And houses are surrounded
By gardens being readied
For planting
crops for the kitchen
And the smell of cheese,
Animals
And unfurling leaves,
Covers the manure
And dirty diesel
Fumes
Mostly anyway.