Swallowed by a hammock
I hide on the paperback floor of Santiago’s skiff,
green finches wheezing in the cork trees –
an escape from my escape.
We’d arrived on the terracotta road
passed sleeping dogs and lime white chapels,
learnt the narrow Moorish streets
and trod the brittle foothills;
I watched your skin olive
as we bathed like lizards on rocks
in full pelt of the mountain sun
before sultry evenings behind shuttered windows,
and me, broken in transit,
sleeping off my Latin temperament
to the white noise of crickets.
(The New Writer 2013)