Wake up, my
go to the guard house.
Let´s go and
play our wits against the elements
and ghosts that haunt that
up! Put on your rubber boots, your
your scarf, your quilted
we won´t get lost,
left and up the mountain on
the old lumber road,
and when our tires begin to
we´ll brave the mountain mud and mist on foot.
We´ll hike and
climb, and where the path forks into four,
we´ll take the middle left, to deeper woods,
our guide the sunlit rays
that pierce the gothic eucaliptus,
to make the winter ferns
and line the berry bushes,
dense and shoulder-high, with silver;
then out of breath we´ll sit a while on ancient black Galician stones,
her volcanic pores in some primordial sauna.
And then we´ll march, and match the woodland songs
with the colors of their
we´ll dally with the tracks of mountain goats and horses,
wild boars, roe deer, and
then suddenly we´ll find the clearing,
with fallen neetles
from those majestic,
unexpected pines amid the eucaliptus forest.
We´ll step into
that startling glade, rimmed by giant grouse
still flaxen with its honeyed
the bush the Celts called sacred for its lacerating thorns;
and in the heart of this
where druids of today still
leave their magic circles on the ground,
that stony cabin yielded to
sentry chambers silently, in awe,
and breathe the musk, and
watch our step
to spare the tiny toadstool
hats, bright red and yellow-orange,
that crown the lattice of the humid straw.
We´ll post our
watch at the window to the sea,
and be the sentinels,
on guard against the
hostile navies of the English, Turks, and Berbers
that ages past despoiled and
terrified our coast.
suddenly you´ll whisper, “Pirates coming!
the jolly roger!
Quickly! Douse that candle!”
a rider to the town. Bar and bolt
load the cannons!”
our giggles muffled, so that no corsair marks us,
we´ll tiptoe to the back room, free from windows to betray us;
we´ll feel the fire, and stir the kettle,
and taste the soup we made
from savory meat of mountain
goats or boars.
We´ll talk to
spooks of shepherds past, and wraiths still hiding from the war
bloodlines, of brothers killing brothers,
the war that tossed our
poetry into an unmarked grave,
the war whose soldiers
barely knew what they were fighting for.
footpaths to the rock cliff´s rim,
we´ll contemplate the sea to its horizon,
and scamper on the rocks and
brave the edge;
and spread our arms like
to lean against the wind in giddy play with fate,
then running down the path
take refuge once again
in the guard house.
gray blankets form the sky
and give soft rumbles,
unpretentious as this sanctuary,
like cat-souls purring, to
call us to our fireplace, and supper
we´ll wander down the mountain path,
and find our car,
and wistfully go home
and leave the guard house.