on a day of tormented skies
suddenly I dreamed of Toledo
Toledo as painted by El Greco.
will music fall out of the sky?
Segovia, cease with the fountains
I think of all the small things
I learned about Spain
in school. the cape lined with rose
that taunts the soul
the beauty of the word “Escorial”
at festivals, then I wanted to weep
to prophesy:
cien mil rosas will arise
and crown everything
but time has lapsed
like the legend of Quixote
across the dread and blinding sands
and no one gives commands that mean anything
and there is a kind of grief
I don’t know why the colour of cerise
reversing the preterit
as if Garcia Lorca had died again
and honey and olive mixed provide
no balm.
nor the nascent oranges chilled
in the last storm of all
the one on the way, on the winds
from the sad green towers
mary angela douglas 11 july 2019
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