Blood has the colour of a rose, pain
that of a white swan in a storm.
Green smells of horses in the dawn,
olives at sunset. We need the mask,
the song, gate to the next field,
slide of lips, love’s orchestra,
companionship of wine.

A lot of gods get lost along the way,
but still the stars are friendly, rivers
worm through reed beds, glide
to a sea, that as the earth turns
in its melody, kisses the red mouth
of the sun.

We know that life is tooth and claw,
write poems for the hawk and wolf.
We’ve urns for pain, terror, loss, shame,
butter for the balm of burns.
It must be wise to build on joy,
relish the frenzy of a gale, listen
to wanton music, dance with a duende,
silver the tolling of the bell.

The sword’s made noble,
garottes of silk.
Soil fertilised by gore
is sown with lies.

¡Por dios! As the years
leaf down the calendars,
the rotten grapes
get thrown to rats,
memories that smell of blood
get chucked in the garbage cart.

We need to drink
Chiclana wine, remember
the flower
behind a dancer’s ear,
the songs she sang
with stamping feet,
clawed beauty
out of anger and despair.

We learn to dream
while sleeping
and awake,
must teach our hands
to knead, must bake
illusionary bread
to live

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