Poetry: At the Edge of the Ebro
No movement but the slow seepage of the river.
No sound but it is reflected by the wind.
The tall poplars cannot deliver the season,
rolled flat beneath the sun like dirty canvas.
From beneath a wreckage of rusty cans and weed
a lump of drowned dog bubbles to the surface.
Immense and empty, its dull and foggy eyes
are a door opened upon decay and death.
A drunk staggers, violently empties himself
and blunders on. Downstream, women washing
heave a song into the air, sharp as barbed wire,
and the sky bellies above them, thick with frost.
On the other bank, muffled sentences and smoke.
Four men sit folded in upon themselves,
roasting whole fish over an open fire.
Their voices piece together like a jig-saw.
Chased by children, arms full of sticks and bows,
a donkey wanders amongst a mess of rubble.
Bewildered and uncertain, its breath condenses
and scurries across the grass like a drift of snow.
