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Picnicking in Andalusia

A Poem by:

Eithne Cavanagh

Colourful Bar

 

Copyright shall at all times remain vested in the Author. No part of the work shall be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the Author's express written consent.


Heady as Spanish champagne, the Autumn air.

A falling fir cone hits my shoulder

reminding me of picnics in Andalusia.

 

You always wore strappy glitzy sandals,

killer heels when driving those pine-scented hills.

Film star glamour, whooshy skirts were yours

 

jangly earrings, carmine reddened lips.

Christmas envelopes for me spilled trinkets

bangles, a necklace of coloured glass

 

…and the American dresses, all sequins, lace,

shimmering petticoats to fuel my schoolgirl

fancies of rocking rolling and romancing.

 

Your hands that last time shocked me.

 

Your hands, (nails once cherry-varnished)

now skeletal, barely covered by a gauze of flesh.

I never knew a hand held so many tiny bones.

 

From your window we watch bulldozers

shudder the foundations of an old church

in favour of underground parking space.

 

No locals chatter in the Plaza

or seek their shade

beneath orange trees smoked in yellow dust.

 

Unable to lift a glass of water, whose cup

once bubbled with champagne and craic

you lie, ankles splintery as dried pine needles.

 

Eithne Cavanagh
Copyright © 2004


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