High up, where laurels grow, a compress of mist
has cooled the fever of the day. Lower down,
in the pueblo, the shutters guard the light
while the gables go blue. Far off, a dog yowls
at a shrill, cryptic whistle from the ravine,
and on our balcony a cork pops: we pour wine.
On the plaza for dinner we had patatas bravas
and pimientos crusted with salt, then observed
a braggadocio leaping bonfires in reverence
to Saint Mark, or a sweetheart, the incense
of flaming juniper threading to the high loom
of the crags. Having drunk our fill, we climbed
the mule path up the rise to our hotel, trusting
it to guide us through a labyrinth of aloe,
cactus and spurge. Another time, another place,
we might stopper the bottle and choose to rest,
but the cobbles are still warm and the cinders
would dance a tarajaste to the faintest order
of a breath. So we clink glasses, trust our senses,
and kiss. Next to our window, by the water pond,
a tree frog clamours for a mate.
Paul O’Brien lives in the Irish midlands and works in an editorial role. He is an English literature graduate and has been experimenting with both poetry and theater in recent years, with a particular focus on environment and memory. He has had poetry, non-fiction and flash fiction published in various publications in Ireland, the United Kingdom and continental Europe, most recently in The Brussels Review.
THE CITY KEY 