In a wooden Spanish village watch
drizzle dress the streets, the rooves of
terracotta, in a coat of water
where the whitening of the sky
suggests an infinite siesta
woken only by the smell of cooking
in the kitchen; the stewing of chicken,
the plethora of muffins, the unsalted butter,
the whole boiled bulbs of garlic –
and other traditionalities that tend to make me nauseous.
Over lunch a woman sings in Castilian
of losing her favourite apple,
her voice not sweet but dappled like some
by-gone prophet, I’m drawn under her harmonics,
undulating like wings in waves over my body.
The stream from the gutter racks
the tierra firma. Clothe me in the corner;
make me a wooded foothill, a sweet
dream between the oaks where they
send the pigs to slaughter.
I called you from the orange grove but
my voice was lost amongst the fruits,
as they lambasted the blue mountains with their contrasting tones.
A sailboat with candles drifts towards the dusk,
brought to life one last time by the sky’s skin-like light.
Old rain is collected again by its forgetful seamstress,
ready to make the desert her long-awaited dress.
Take some rest. The heavens have welcomed this
holding of hands, sticky like the pastries here,
baked in the shape of Palm trees.