L’Escala: thunder blue,
the Mediterranean
beat her lace-frilled cuffs against
the coast’s ridged washboard rocks
while the cobla band played on
in brassy silence.
You’ll find a couple of other poetry fragments from my recent trip to Catalonia if you click here.
Spring pours sunshine
through the woods to dapple
on my polished shoes.I hear birdsong echo
children’s laughter; green
is a scent, a taste
fresh on my tongue.
(The opening lines of an old poem.)
La tramuntana
turns the beach
vertical, lifting it
towards a cleanswept blue
where tiptilting gulls
fly backwards.
It’s not quite the right photo, of course, but the tramontane wind blew so hard for four of the five days of my recent trip that I couldn’t see or think or focus. I could hardly stand upright most of the time, so was pleased to find even a few lines of poetry, without worrying about whether I had appropriate pictures to use alongside.
A painter’s light, you said,
but I saw nothing,
eyes scrunched against
drifting sand and tufts
of cottonwood.
The neighbour’s cat croons throatily;
songbirds squeak and whirr:
the new day eases slowly into gear.
empty house
dust on the dressing table
cobwebs in her hair brush
don't confuse the narrator 