San Miguel

Crickets sing
In courtyards
To trickling water.
In the distance
bells of Cathedrals ring.

I think of a

Dark skinned boy

With olive eyes
Crouching
In an embryonic chair,
A one Legged
Old woman walking
With a cane
among the brightly
Coloured plates,
An old man
Singing playing
harmonica
With white pupils
And a cup.

Murmured
Songs from
Disconsolate
lips a haunting
blessing
From the wandering
priest.
On polished stone,
Walking your
bones are
Creaking in the
daylight
darkness
like a boat
as canonballs
are shot.