Old Tower

This was written in Torrevieja, Spain, and was inspired by Miguel Hernandez and his time with the anti-fascist fighters during the Civil War.

 

Old Tower

The sun gleamed on the Old Tower.
Winter hid in the shadows as the sea
slept. I closed my eyes and let the warmth
wash my face. 

With cat-stealth the cool breeze spoke.
Tales of crystal lakes, of the snow mountains
where you lay. Panting shallow steam breath.
Stomach empty as your gun. Hunger and despair.

It whispered old stories. Allegories.
Carried me to where the dead cried.
A seabird's call brought me back.
Salt had dried on my cheeks.

My arid thoughts.
Your mortal wounds. 

 

Image by mtomasel from Pixabay

Guacamole

 

Written for Paul Brookes' ekphrastic challenge - one poem a day in April 2021. 

 

The art work for this day is "Guacamole" by Kerfe Roig

 

Guacamole

 

An avocado never failed to satisfy

his senses. He had gone to market early 

to select the best and banter in bad Spanish

with Manuel, who had taught

him how to find the perfect fruit. 

 

The dark wrinkled skin, still firm

in his hand, the blade biting 

into flesh that just gave way, 

taking care when it met the pit;

ten cuidado! the warning from Manuel.

The supporting cast - firm scallions,

with trails of hair, sliced in rings. Luscious

ruby tomatoes, hitting him with scent

before his nose got near. Lime, sharp

and fresh, heightened with a dash of salt

and heat of Cayenne. He filled his bag

to the sound of Manuel laughing

with his next parroquiano. Later, eating 

while watching boats slide in and out

of the harbour he thought how much better

 

this simple meal became than the sum 

of such disparate parts. 

Tim Fellows 2021

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

The Pigeon

Written on Cabo Roig beach, September 2019

The Pigeon

It was in the days after the storms
when we returned to the beaches
where animals and fish had washed up,
reeking of death and destruction.

No sign now, swimmers do handstands
in the warm salty water, waves break
gently, no longer crashing and ripping
the cliff paths and washing over
shoreline roads that lie warped like
plastic in the hot sun.

Blues music carries
well in the light breeze, children
dig in the sand and ex-pat beer-bellies
glow red or turn to teak.
Tapas, beer and cocktails
soothe the needs of the snaking queue.

The Africans lope gently between
chairs and towels, Elvis shades
and colourful beach mats over their shoulders.
The deaf woman leaves small
ceramic turtles, 2 Euros if you want.
She mostly retrieves them unsold.

A pigeon, ruby-eyed,
steps its way between the bodies;
purple necked, shimmering.
Its head jerks and pecks at the crumbs
offered at the sandy table. It is tolerated
as long as it doesn't encroach,
as long as it doesn't become
a problem.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Verde

This poem was drafted at a Poetry Business workshop and is based on a real incident on the green dry river bed between Cabo Roig and Cala Capitan beach.

Verde

The verde is refreshed today

drenched by last night's thunderclouds.

The earth has quenched its thirst

dry enough for sandaled feet

to raise dust from a path

scattered with slivers of shattered glass.

I look to a sky

that redefines the colour blue,

carrying a small plane

whose engine harmonises

with the relentless insects

hiding in the trees.

As I look down a gecko stops,

stock still. I stop too

and we both wait for the other to blink.

I look away and glimpse the sea.

When I look back, he is gone. 

Tim Fellows 2019

Orihuela Market

Written after a visit in the winter of 2019.

Orihuela market

Out

The camels smile their lugubrious smile,

kneel-lying on the cobbled street

as one of the herd clambers to its feet,

to carry the excited child.

The boy, a swirl of bravado and fear

rises and jerks towards the sky.

His sister clings, with no pretence,

between the humps and squeals and cries.

Exotic scents drift through the crowd

out from the stalls, a Moorish feel,

the dancer's hips make snake-like lines

to the pipe's mesmeric reel.

Meats, skewered and layered, drip fat

scents of spice drift in our wake

Full legs of ham, great wheels of cheese

and tempting us, huge slabs of cake.

Back

Candy floss and toffee apples

hints of Britain

in the winter sunshine

banished by churros

dipped in chocolate.

An array of trinkets made from

the bones of animals

No hay maltrato animal

the sign informs

Under the mighty wall of rock

the church's bells hang in loaded silence.

A man who resembles

our image of Jesus

silently passes by its door

The sun is cooling now
and the crowds drift home.
The camel chews and dreams
of deserts.

Tim Fellows 2019