i went on the bus to Cordoba,
and tried to find the Moor's
left over
in their excavated floors
and mosaic courtyards,
with hanging flowers brightly chamelion
against whitewashed walls
carrying calls
behind gated iron bars-
but they were gone
leaving mosque arches
and carved stories
to God's doors.
in those ancient streets
where everybody meets;
i saw the old successful men
with their younger women again,
sat in chrome slat chairs,
drinking coffee to cover
their vain love affairs-
and every breast,
was like the crest
of a soft ridge
as i peeped over
the castle wall and Roman bridge
like a Visigoth rover.
soft hand tapping on shoulder,
heavy hair
and beauty older,
the gypsy lady gave her clover
to borrowed breath,
embroidering it for death,
adding more to less
like the colours fading in her dress.
time and tune are too planned
to understand
her Trevi fountain of prediction,
or the dirty Bernini hand
shaping its description.
Hello Strider,
ReplyDeleteI have read your poem and really enjoyed your words.
A very graceful image and I lost myself, somewhere in those ancient streets. I could smell the coffee!!
A most enjoyable piece of writing.
Best wishes, Eileen
Hello Eileen,
ReplyDeleteThankye for stopping by and reading. Glad you liked the poem. I was sat drinking coffee outside a cafe in Cordoba, when a gypsy lady came up to me and started talking..