healingwords: poetry for the soul

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 co...