pueblo – Page 12 – don't confuse the narrator

blue

The rain finally came at the weekend. To be honest, since it had waited so long, it might have stayed away for another 24 hours and let the villagers have their fiesta fun all through Saturday night.

I suppose I could witter on about words like ‘petrichor‘, but instead I’ll just post this picture of a morning glory that I took while I was down in southern Spain earlier this month. It’s certainly a lot bluer than the sky at the moment.

progress

Hemmed in by mountains,
they built church spires –
antennas to speak to God. Now,
high-rise office blocks and flats
impede the signal.

(The village in the photo has grown enormously since I first visited seven or eight years ago. The pine on the left of the picture kindly obscures the crane perched up on the heights in the north, while the one on the right obscures the modern apartment blocks that remain unfinished to the south east, victims, apparently, of the crisis in the Spanish construction industry.)

insomnia

In A Far Cry from Kensington, Muriel Spark wrote:

the quality of insomnia depends entirely on what you decide to think of.

I don’t suffer from insomnia. Ever. I do have a few sleepless nights. And when I do, I tend to try and write poems in my head. The repetition is often just as effective as counting sheep.
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first day of autumn

I really intended to post this yesterday – on the last day of summer. It’s a glass half-full or half-empty thing.

We’re always so keen to be moving on to new beginnings, I though it might be good to dawdle a bit, like the river is doing at the moment.

Unlike the year we moved here, when I heard the water through the open windows on the first night and thought it was pouring with rain, this year the river is very low and practically silent.

So, however inconvenient the heavy rain is, I’ll have to hope for a wet winter. Or a very cold one, so there’s plenty of snow to thaw and fill the rivers next spring. (See what I mean about always wanting new beginnings?)
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21st-century pugilist

Albert Stanley (Stan) Roberts; all-in wrestler

You what? He spits.
His knuckles clench, thumbs
tuck to fists and elbows flex;
he squares up, rises to his toes,
knees bent, ready to dance, then
stalls.
Hands dip to hitch
his slipping jeans.

The photo was kindly provided by a friend, nephew of Stan Roberts, when I said I didn’t have any ideas about what to post to the blog.

I think the intention was to inspire me to write a new poem. Instead, I thought it made an interesting contrast to the modern wannabe fighter in this piece written a couple of years ago, inspired by a lad in the village.

(And, yes, despite knowing very little about fighting of any kind, I do know that wrestlers and boxers are not the same.)