The Loss of Spain (April 2008)

Empty asphalt stretches like a rubber band

into the sun.

It's melting, I think,

Anytime it could snap back

and bring me to a standstill.

No more running for me today.

A farmer has planted rows and rows

of tired trees.

Arching their backs they drag their leaves in the dust.

Waiting with heavy shopping

for the next bus somewhere else.

I don't blame them.

It's hot here after all

and the cicadas wail

in mourning all night long.

They're lost, I think,

the marsh must be a jungle to them.

I search out a clearing for them,

But the mess of green

is knotted tight.

It would take a lifetime to detangle.

Here and there the grass stands up-right,

Perhaps where someone's begun

to tease the blades free.

They've given up,

Put it to rest,

The follies of youth.

The cicadas know better.

They stay where they are and scream.

01/04/09

There I was again.  Tumbling through laughter and clinking glasses.  Watching the lanterns, strung by some invisible wire in the deep-sea twilight, swinging spectre-like but beautiful, and soothing.  The trees filled the still-warm air with their perfume (never fully realised by the makers of car air-fresheners) and the dried earth crunched below.  

A track, barely wide enough to stand side-by side flowed water-like through the dense forest.  Soon I’ll reach the clearing where the tents are erected and the fire-breathers erupt screams from the bubbling crowds.  

Around me faceless arms, caressing hands and the chirruping of friends’ voices.  My eyes streaming where they meet my smile and my heart racing as I twirl, skip and dance deeper into the valley.