I haven’t thought of Spain in years,
but I remember how once it spilled forth
in discussion, long into the night, our words
painting pictures of virgin sands too white
for eyes to bear. Low music cast a perfect
backdrop for those treasures we imagined,
Pamplona as our secret, its mythic ideal
there for the taking amid a wild mob.
Nothing would contain our consumption
of late nights filled with reckless abandon,
or the bold forays into sun-drenched, cobble-
stoned streets where we’d meet our fate.
All would make way for our passage,
the ancient buildings bowing in homage
to the new conquerors of old Spain —
oh how such dreams were entertained.
for Gary Lawson
