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