Blue Spanish Skies.

Young yachts bobbing, knocking quietly on the promenade wall

Oblivious of the longing glances in their direction from holidaying hoardes

The cross of Saint Joan loom large on street corners

Tee-shirts with the emblem on sale in all flea markets.

How many thoughts can you cram into a day?

When might the reader become the book?

Distraction for him can be as simple as a dog looking for attention

Which is not really a distraction

Just a lead down another path.

A holiday Thursday

He arose early showered and breakfasted

Limbered up, to the extent the arthritis would allow

thoughts of labour buried at the bottom of a suitcase

Crossed himself said a silent prayer

Walked out into early morning sunlight and bird song

Turning the key in the door shut silence inside

Speaking to himself in monotone he stepped out counting only cobbles

Happy in his holiday world.

Busily observing the austere faces of those making their way to various work stations

getting inside someone else’s vision

The reader soon will become the book.

(c) Chris Black. June 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~