POSTCARD FROM LANZAROTE


I have walked in lava fields

where colours runs like tears

down barren mountain slopes;

where fire has scorched the earth,

annihilating and devouring all.


Only a keening wind is heard,

a dirge for long-departed friends.

Only the eternal seeking...

for dandelion clocks

and autumn leaves

and children's kites

and poppy seeds

and washing lines

with dripping sheets,


for the long- flowing tresses

of a young girl's hair

and bamboo chimes;

for hats and veils

whipped from the heads

of sombre villagers

after Sunday Mass,

to bowl down alleyways

for scampering boys to chase.


These toys of the wind.

Forever lost, forever mourned.



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