Idylls

The legend sun finally
accepts a slow descent
through a sea
of improbable blue.

And shadows begin to congregate
in the mouths of tabernas,
in the corners and shutters
of these winding streets.

The Mediterranean scent-
rose petals, coffee, pao baking,
rises on a slipstream of ocean air
and quivers the ochre-tinged
window flowers.

And always there are children,
“Escoces, algeum euros?”
brown, dusty and demanding.

As a lizard skitters across
the roughness of a stone,
somewhere a bell is ringing.

In Glasgow
there will be rain,
ubiquitous thin drizzle,
which silvers cars
and clings like skin.

In mid-afternoon twilight,
police sirens will be screaming
past the yellow light
of yet another corner bar
and dampness will shroud
the streets in vagueness.

As we draw towards
the border of night,
the view is as clear
as this huge, silver disc of moon
resting on the ocean rim.