In this land..

In this land time does not dictate,
In this land the hours do not make
Slaves of us to watch and clock,
And ticking minutes do not mock
Our hasty dash to mark appointments made.
In this land the warming sun
Dissolves all tendancy to rush and run
And reigns in place of tyrant time obeyed.
While us Brits it seems toil ever harder
Los espanoles dijen “no pasa nada”
And if you’re a bit late no-one is dismayed.

In this land the rippling shadows dance and play
Along networks of humble alleyways
Interweaving in a sleepy maze of Spanish streets
Dotted with white garden seats
Inviting passers by to pause and sup algo para beber
O una cosita para comer
If you’re peckish quizas un bocadillo
Washed down con un vere de sangria frio
O si algo mas – un montadito
Y todo la comida esta muy rico.

In ample rows the bars are hung
With tempting hunks of buen jamon
And twines of herbs and garlic cloves
And then the bar boasts rows on rows
Of burdened shelves – they laden sink
With every beverage you can think
Each bottle glints a coloured wink
In the dim and cosy light.

Now above these streets from a different height
Stretches a view of earthy terracotta-coloured rooftops
Baked like clay throughout the day until the sun drops
Their dry parched walls relieved
By white washing lines waving in the breeze.

From this land warm and brown
I return to the likes of London town
But at least when from this dream I woke
To all you charming poet folk.