and grooved walks where clanked the heels of the grave mailed knights who had driven and killed the darkskinned Moors, and where on silken knees their sons knelt on the nights of the full moon to vow strange deeds for their lady's grace.
The old strong towers are crumbled and doddering now and sit like old men smiling in the sun.
About them clamber the giggling flowers and below the sceptic sea gently laughing in daisywhite foam on the beach rocks the ships with flapping sails that flash white to the white village on the shore.
On a wall where the path is soft with flowers the brown goatboy lies, his cap askew and whistles out over the beckoning sea the tune the village band jerks out, a shine of brass in the square below: a swaggering young buck of a tune that slouches cap on one side, cigarette at an impudent tilt, out past the old toothless and smilingly powerless towers, out over the ever-youthful sea that claps bright cobalt hands in time and laughs along the tawny beaches.
Denia
XVIII
How fine to die in Denia young in the ardent strength of sun calm in the burning blue of the sea in the stabile clasp of the iron hills; Denia where the earth is red as rust and hills grey like ash. O to rot into the ruddy soil to melt into the omnipotent fire of the young white god, the flamegod the sun, to find swift resurrection in the warm grapes born of earth and sun that are crushed to must under the feet of girls and lads, to flow for new generations of men a wine full of earth of sun.
XIX
The road winds white among ashen hills grey clouds overhead grey sea below. The road clings to the strong capes hangs above the white foam-line of unheard breakers that edge with lace the scarf of the sea sweeping marbled with sunlight to the dark horizon towards which steering intently like ducks with red bellies swim the black laden steamers.
The wind blows the dust of the road and whines in the dead grass and is silent.
I can hear my steps and the clink of coins in one pocket and the distant hush of the sea.
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