Emilio

Back then, in a small room - a party buzz

and I’m at the bar;

an ex-pat in foreign lands

who can’t understand the lingo.

Fizzy beer, thinking about

attachment theory and mountains,

with only a little pain.

I hear, again and again

‘Emilio’, ‘Emilio’, ‘Emilio!’

and, there, a Spanish barman,

overweight and sweaty,

moves with grace between

beer, coffee, spirit;

serving noisy people

in shirt and waistcoat, shiny shoes.

He focuses his everything on

coffee maker, steam,

beer spilling neatly in a jar,

sweets for kiddies,

clinking change, food orders,

knife and fork, cleaning glasses,

wipe the bar,

catching faces, voices

with a nodding eyeball glance.

Holding it all together!

A man on mission,

right on purpose, service, passion.

Next night, I return

to tune again into

his energy, humility.

But he’s gone

and a pang,

a longing for excellence,

awareness, warmth, pervades

even now.

Romancing a Pot Belly Sow

Black eyes are sublime, hooded by frayed ears,

as if peering through a shaman’s comb;

dissecting and blurring

everything changes,

behind her veil, her curtain.

Back-hair is a springy hedge

and, every time a person whispers,

she turns to listen;

more inquisitive than most

who lay and snort in the sun.

Front legs are pretty as a ballerina,

delicate and curvy,

on point. Her face,

elongated, has that quality

of a knowing smile

beneath a tasteful snout,

a bit like flexible hose;

short and smooth,

snuffling like a snorkel:

so sweet, so fat, so slow.

Layers

cosmos

a dusty void

forever changing clouds

atmosphere unseen by an eye

highest leaf on a twig on a tree

branch on a bush reaching out

a prickly pear protecting itself

a dock leaf nestled in clover

blade of grass pointing up

a river running over rock

clustered soil, brown

gooey magma

a core

fire

a core

gooey magma

clustered soil, brown

a river running over rock

blade of grass pointing up

a dock leaf nestled in clover

a prickly pear protecting itself

branch on a bush reaching out

highest leaf on a twig on a tree

atmosphere unseen by an eye

forever changing clouds

a dusty void

cosmos

Arucis church

A church with shabby overcoat;

made of breezeblock, cinder-faced and grey.

Barred and locked.

Locked and barred.

Litter bins around are empty

and butterflies sustain themselves by

floating to a tree, then a bush;

creating, probing, fluttering.

Me, I pray for sleep, bored,

while, southerly, a clutch of concrete mixers churn

and nearby little finches sing and flitter round. Thank the Lord.

Difference

A narrow path drops and leaps

from here to there below

and down seems even steeper

in evening’s amber glow.

Whether to start from here – go down

or start from there – climb up?

We’ll get a ride to either one,

there is no time for both

but, look, those trees are reaching out

to fight for every scrap of sun

and cockerels crow around our feet;

soon, soon enough, a day is done.

Upward stirs our muscles, blood, our heart:

we choose ascent. It’s hopeful, honest, hard.