TO DREAM OF WATER

At this time of year the fierce summer heat dries all the surrounding landscape. The spring flowers and waist high grasses wither into a brown, dusty crisp, the hillside pines an ominous green shadow carrying the menace of sudden fire. The holidaymakers enjoy the sun, sea, pools and Spanish welcome. My northern blood screams with exhaustion after the first few weeks of intense heat and I start to long for the cool, for rivers, woods and mountain lakes, for wild seas, for the green that only refreshing rain can bring. Then I dream of water. 

TO DREAM OF WATER

Levante damned by drought,

bleached stones like Dover chalk

exposed in dried up beds

awaiting Autumn’s torrents;

husks of scorched plant life,

death grey, crunch underfoot,

hillsides a spark away from flame,

an exile dreams of water.

Licking lips moist from mizzle,

toddler boots stomping, splashing;

breath holding cold of paddling feet,

toes sinking in squelching sand;

slipping in moss coated stream,

wobbling across stepping stones;

head bent before lashing rain,

staccato beats on caravan roof.

Smiling arms embrace the

omnipotence of an angry sky;

the energy of a Northern sea rising 

to climatic crash on pebbled shore,

the trickling swoosh of wave reclaimed,

frothed white like boiling cream;

the still dark waters of the mountain cym,

mirroring plum shades of spring heather.

The gurgling dance of the new born brook,

rushing with boisterous youth

to join calmer brethren downstream;

the majestic flow of the matriarch,

blending sweet river with salty wash, 

in Estuary’s tidal courtship,

confluence of coast and mountain,

water merging in cyclic completion.