spain to scotland


hands in spanish soil,
it came to me like as a happy shock
as if the news of distant
relative who has bequeathed you everything
or the news of cure for your terminal disease.
on spanish soil the teardrops fell,
leaving vanishing stains on the arid ground
on which the horses would sleep.

in between happened all that happened in between;
the thrills and promises, laughter and ecstasy,
recriminations and spiteful things,
the fall aparts and those glorious rebuilds.
and we learned so much
as if each had found a dying bird
and nurtured it, brought it round so it could fly again.

and in the earliest days just the thought of her
broke me out in virulent happiness.
driving from the bookshop in that little scottish town;
i will ruin it she said. but she was wrong

it was a work of collaboration.
i laugh at all the hexagrams, the spreads
and the crystal resting on a ‘no’ from its swing.
how right they were, the sceptic has to admit.

so now we take up distant postures
and do not look into each others eyes because
once more she has found a dying bird. but this time she knows
she cannot heal him. time will take its course.
that is all time does. and when i am healed

will she still be there waiting? will she
still call me friend? don’t ask such questions now
but feel and pay heed. in jungle places
where shaman dwell, if shaman still exist,
they would look upon the dying bird
and see it in transition. so let this me die
so that i may return. there is nothing
else to say for now except; thank you.


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