Elche

I wrote this after flying to Alicante in 2019. 

Elche

The plane banks, tilting in the dusk,
creasing the early evening air.
I still see the sun, painting the horizon
with oranges, reds and fading yellows.

Below, a Spanish city comes to life.
We are low, and the cars
leave trails of tiny lights as they come
and go. Streets and houses are lit, and I
imagine the thousands of lives being lived,
tiny actors playing unscripted parts.
Births, marriages, deaths. Sorrow, joy
and pain.

The wing lifts and the city disappears.

              Mis hermanos, hermanas
              are you really there?
              Have you vanished too,
              in the failing light,
              and have I dreamed
              the sultry evenings
              of Spanish summers?

Tim Fellows 2020