REGALIA

If the rich are different they show it with the clarity of their table as Scolt FitzGerald decreed, the breathless hush of their regalias, the manner in which wedgewood & crystal are cleaned to a polished exactness -- the shimmer of expensive china no less repetitive than the hulking boys waiting in window stops; monsoon rain pelting the upper Punjab plains. 48 Back to the Contents Page 

 

SAN CRISTOBAL

A gypsy sits in a taverna joking with a sailor who has left bridges and maidens along islets connecting many a storied sea. Ducats tumble from a cloth bag the way the gypsy remembers caravans and the remembrance of gold steeled against warm flesh in moonlight of his native Umbria. Lavender is the coat of dreams along navy blue hemmings the colour of the gypsy's eyes, the blood's colour progeny whose men of wealth both are related to. The gypsy stares at the taverna wall and the ducats gleaming to outside rain. Men joke at rail depots where in a like fashion water splashes mud into little arches up a riverbank. Neither has the shallows of minnows at his command. Bunched up stubble in the wind cannot fathom lies or gender hope -- it is the province of the mind, the coinage of perhaps a Spaniard on discovering San Cristobal, one's own sieglo oro in fortune squandered in sunlight with only the sweating Appolosa still straining on this, the last taverna ride. 49, 50 Back to the Contents Page 

 

GUADALQUIVIR

In a pleasureless world, pure pleasure exists. Particles of sunlight, exquisite with nightdrops & leaves stringent with dew, persuade tributaries with inset eyes to depart down foible breast, sticky fingers up delightful steps. And taking pleasure with an earthen spoon -- sipped long and hard down tubes and winding entrails; soft relief canyons swollen blood vessels. For your brow shines like olive branches, Guadalquivir's river or nectar drawn from golden wells and, as such, unfolds loveliest eyes out from fond embrace not hedging lies. My darling, amongst flowering cherub trees a moment shared with you is pretty mirth accounts all Arcadia's treasures, the angelic breath off passing wings. 51 Back to the Contents Page 

 

LEAVES OF THE CECROPIA TREE

And what of privileged 

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