Return to Spain

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