1
In Quesada, the breeze blows a heat haze
across mountain slopes where dusty, green,
groves hang above white-washed casas.
It is a stepped Roman company of
olive trees that are dotted through with fincas; with
stone walls draped in vine and shaded by fruit trees.
Blossom borders swimming pool paths'; and
each day the sun takes-her-time-getting-up.
And as she yawns dogs howl at the day-moon,
and cock crows get squashed between chattering birds,
before sun stretches-out a tinted melody.
And scales of colour lift. So fast!
A Chopin minute that throws off ghostly shrouds.
11
At noon a bell rings; and again she'll ring
the hour, her sombre, dong; dong; for me recalls
devotions and mass and I mind Rome
and home. Like home, the cafe bar's an early house
inviting men and boys to step in,
to chat over a beverage, or two.
And like home the people are very fine.
Watchful ladies, some, with care-kissed faces
call a buenos dias when invited
by a smile and men nod from their posts
in the village square. And each day, the sun
takes-her-time, for at night she caresses
interludes, hums lullabys where from flame
she builds a fanfare that locks-out daylight.
111
Tonight a fat, yellow, harvest moon presents
a gift of bounty and peace, and from
the mountain top village lights appear to wink.
They air tunes that are, in tune with sky
where once a star appeared to guide three kings.
Is it still there guiding travellers and goatherds?
that drive their flock across this old, hard clod
that holds life's heart. And shares its soul
with pear and peach; olive and pomegranate;
with lemon and vine: old, canny sod
that grabs sun's health and sucks-up night's moist air,
to nurture and share Maestros' repeated care.