Moraira is a small coastal resort about an hour’s drive from Alicante. 

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We each of us carry a strange portfolio
        of ghosts and vipers
        spiny things and ticks that burrow
              wherever we go.
And self-securing then self-releasing
        like a magical Gladstone bag,
it can hold in check and then deliver all
        at the sudden doorway of the moment.

Here, the sliders, the shiny-shelled, the leggy things
are eclipsed in nature: walls and trees bear their weight
in a symbiosis of colour, form and texture.
        Good to see them free, untrammeled,
        where they ought to be amongst the webs,
        the moth husks and the tendrils.

And the ghosts:
   each baggy, flapping bedsheet sham
      caught by the hem amongst alien thorns
         as long as bread knives, caught
            on the rough-tongued bark
               of the Bismarck palms, until
                  blue dawn finds them
                     white, creased and silent.

About Dick Jones

I'm a post-retirement Drama teacher, currently working part-time. I have a grown-up son and daughter, three grandchildren and three young children from my second marriage. I write - principally poetry but prose too, both fitfully published. My poetry collection Ancient Lights is published by Phoenicia Publishing ( and my translation of Blaise Cendrars' 'Trans-Siberian Prosody and Little Jeanne from France' (illustrated by my friend, the artist, writer and long-time blogger Natalie d'Arbeloff) is published by Old Stile Press ( I play bass guitar & bouzouki in the song-based acoustic/electric trio Moorby Jones, playing entirely original material ( + I have a dormant blog with posts going back to 2004 at Dick Jones' Patteran Pages - - and I'm a radio ham. My callsign is G0 EUV.
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