Monday, 11 April 2011

Tilting Windmills

Ranks of new age windmills
wheel in heavy silence
high on the windy ridges.
No old Quixote with horse and lance,
just me in my battered red car,
and bright Quixotic dreams
looking for something.

Pools of shimmering heat
puddle the long hot road
crossing the bleached blonde plains
of vast Castile La Mancha –
where long ages past
so many armies fought and passed
pursuing the Reconquista
south into the lands of light
and Andalusia.

Heat on my face,
light in my eyes,
cadences of sweet guitars,
ruby Rioja and lazy siestas,
scent of jasmines on the wind;
like a lost lover,
like music half remembered
caught on the edge of sound
I dream of you,
how I dream of you,
your fiery kiss
and hot embrace,
your turbulent rhythms
tease the thirst of my longing ...
How much I miss you!

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