The Rains Return
The sky weeps;
Hills soak to refill rills.
Upon the porch, we sit still.
The rain – snow in the high ground – has finally returned to much of Spain, bringing some relief to the drought we’ve been experiencing this year.
The spring that supplies our village in the Valdorba is still flowing at a trickle, though. It will take much more rain to raise the water table and refill the reservoirs.
the spring last week above, the same spring in September below…
But everyone has been happy to see the rain, despite the need for umbrellas instead of sunglasses.
This is a photo of one of the beaches in San Sebastian, aka Donostia, taken when I was there last week.
I sat on the beach and wrote this poem.
Donostia, December 2017
On the breakwater, as tide rises,
Shielding eyes to see gleaming mountain
Snowmelt trickle by.
We shouldn’t be able to see the mountain from the beach at this time of year, for the blanket of cloud that normally shrouds the city.
But what is normal anymore?
Anyway, I wrote a few poems that afternoon. It reminded me of another poem I wrote a few weeks ago, which describes a little of why I’ve written so little recently, and posted less.
But maybe we’ll get back to normal sometime soon…
Words Come Forth
They say our words won’t be kept down;
They bubble up, under pressure, like lava
Pushing through a fissure,
Bursting forth if they can’t flow.
But instead, they are drawn
Under empty sky,
Sucked out by silence,
Pulled forth by the vacuum
Of open space,
Giving them a place to emerge
Timidly into tranquilly
Like deer from the thicket at twilight.
I was reminded of this by a friend on facebook today in reference to my second novel, Five Days in Ballyboy Beach, just accepted by Tirgearr Publishing. It is also, sadly, appropriate from the less romantic viewpoint of the amount of rubbish swirling round in the ocean – a paper just the other days suggested that melting arctic ice would release trillions of tiny pieces of plastic back into the water.
Along the Shore
I walked along the shore
Searching for stories,
And saw from the tide line there
Was no shortage of them:
A small apple, still intact,
Discarded from a recent
Cider-pressing at a nearby orchard,
Taken by the rain down a drainage ditch;
A balloon, lost by a boy
Who stared skywards, crying
As it sailed out of sight
Inside the blue, at
The truth of his father’s words
That it would fly away if he let go
More than at the loss of his toy;
The arm and lens-less frame of
A former pair of pink, heart-shaped sunglasses
Lost from a inflatable boat
Bouncing over the Caribbean,
Bought in a stall in the resort
At two in the morning by a gentleman
After travelling from a Guangdong factory;
A piece of string – a balled up knot of
Baling twine – tied to a gate on a mountain farm
In place of a hinge that had long since rusted off
And fallen into the mossy rocks,
Until it wore through with use,
Taken by the wind to the river
There to flow towards the ocean
Entwined in twigs and tree trunks
Till they too, rotted away, then
Enticing turtles as if tentacles;
Seaweed, streams of it, several hues of
Green and brown clumps covered in sand
Some curling as they desiccate, smelling of
Sea and the denizens of the deep,
Symbolising and indicating some
Small piece of the unseen reaches beneath
The lapping waves, wondrous, dangerous
Violent and intense as any city-street.