I have a Spanish garden,
Sun drenched neglect.
I pick the weeds and wildflowers
Amid the trimmed geraniums
And cocoa bean trees.

Unruly bougainvillea,
I trail through its terraces
Out onto quiet foothills
In search of wild thyme.
In the coolness of the evening,
Sun sinking behind stark mountains,
Walking up
Forgotten twists and turns,
I think I hear the laughter
Of long gone Moorish women.
They carry empty clay water jugs
Down the hill
On proud heads,
Faces covered.

As I pass them on my return,
Now bent,
In the soft place
Between hip and waist,
They carry their jugs of water
So slowly up the hill.

We observe each other
Silent
In timeless
Contemplation.

~~For Denise, who wished for me a Spanish garden