The Festival

In Spain they have festivals. 

The sun is fierce as the oranges ripen. 

And senoritas dance,

Flashing coy glances at him, or is it him?

No one can know while the mothers are watching. 

The men in the shade are drunk now. 

“Burro” they slur. “Burro, burro!”

The terrified donkey is dragged to the square. 

And the loading begins. 

One sack, two sacks, three, four. 

The tension mounts as bets are laid. 

Five, six. 

Surely she must go? 

The end comes at seven. 

Four splayed legs that tried so hard but could never win. 

The man collects his money.

He buys his wife some flowers and cherries. 

 

Neither donkeys or mothers are tireless, 

But a mother must resist. 

And say “Enough at five!”.

My love stops at six.