Winter Night, Carabeo Beach, Merja

In the interval between waves

the wet sand is brown glass,

or the cool mahogany of a bowl

turned by wounded hands.

A single, wrought iron wall-lamp

lights the white walls

of the cliff houses,

and the steps to Carabeo.

Cliffs like sentinels.

Tempered darkness.

The air in the palms

still holds the memory of almonds;

plains of red ochre brushed with green;

crickets' voices; pine resin; white jasmine:

the keen essence of summer.

Now the sea begins to dream.

It dreams of the centre:

of mountains deep in snow;

and of the black, twisted trunks

of the olive grove

where he sleeps: omphalos,

endlessly giving birth

to the landscape.

*

A dog barks.

Still palms.

Cold blaze of phosphorous.

Without a voice,

Venus is rising

over Fuente de Lágrimas.

And over Viznar.