i went on the bus to Cordoba,
and tried to find the Moor’s
left over
in their excavated floors
and mosaic courtyards,
with hanging flowers brightly chamelion
against whitewashed walls
carrying calls
behind gated iron bars-
but they were gone
leaving mosque arches
and carved stories
to God’s doors.
in those ancient streets
where everybody meets;
i saw the old successful men
with their younger women again,
sat in chrome slat chairs,
drinking coffee to cover
their vain love affairs-
and every breast,
was like the crest
of a soft ridge
as i peeped over
the castle wall and Roman bridge
like a Visigoth rover.
soft hand tapping on shoulder,
heavy hair
and beauty older,
the gypsy lady gave her clover
to borrowed breath,
embroidering it for death,
adding more to less
like the colours fading in her dress.
time and tune are too planned
to understand
her Trevi fountain of prediction,
or the dirty Bernini hand
shaping its description.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his fourth book Wooded Windows
Very good indeed. Takes us to the heart of the land. A great portrayal of those distant times and I can relate to that. I could almost have been there, almost.
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Thank you Trevor for your lovely comment. Glad you connected with this poem from my travels in Spain. Most appreciated. https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
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Thank you and thank you for your smashing poem. Not many can be as good.
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Reblogged this on Poetry by Strider Marcus Jones.
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Beautiful, witty and unsentimental, all at the same time. The older successful men with younger women is briliant. Kevin
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Thank ye Kevin. Lovely comment. Most appreciated.
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Strider, wonderful imagery in this poem! I once saw a documentary on the Moorish history of Cordoba, and it flashed through my mind as I read your poem. Have a great day! Cheryl
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Thank ye Cheryl. Lovely comment.
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