Village walk in Spain

Village walk in Spain

 

I climb up from the valleys

follow the  path of donkeys.

My presence pursues the moments

as it croaks like a floundering bullfrog

in the mind’s stronghold.

 

The floating minute whistles casually,

weaves wreaths from wild flowers

and gently strokes my neck.

Vast, bright air flooding from the above,

the scented breeze ignores me.

 

I wobble on the ever winding lines of terraces

of these elegantly  resting female mountains.

Herds and swarms of cultures gathered

in these cupped hands like valleys and

disappeared in the drain hole of time.

 

Nobody wants to wake up from

the oozing garlic ornate dream.

They just repeat what is safe,

as the old told how to survive,

indeed,  good for their godly goats.

 

Their trance splits willow wood in my heart.

 

 

Gyula Friewald © 19/05/2013