He liked listening to Radio Tres.

The introductions and links assisted his Español,

  the recordings his understanding of serious music.

[he slouched on his cot, scrabbling with his fingers

 in the vegetable background of memory]

Every night on the bare mountain was as barren as the last.


On the overhead washing line, the Tibetan prayer flags

  were flying at half mast:

    half a lifetime was a cliché,

    Sofía a world away.

[the Madre never weeded beans.

  she looked after the investments and drove in a big limousine]


The future loomed imperfect,

  the past hovered in the present.

[there was a halo painted on the wall

 at the back of her absence]

The sky was blue, the earth red, the olives green.

All faded to secondary colours.

[bare feet on rare earth make no sound]

Mañana ever comes.


He needed a drink.





Julian Isaacs








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