THREADS

I

banging fists on the bloody chopping board
the local butcher wept

like something from a horror book
a bright kid nodded saying yes Edgar Allen Poe

and to think her love of butterflies
the reason that first brought her here

II

Bees and one cabbage white feast on our lavender in flower.
On the smokey wind Ken’s voice again, here comes trouble
Death. Ghostie talk. It’s always the heart that gets us

South of the river in the manor of Professeur Baraka
his daily sermon outside Hempire dream readings
I will warn you gravely, suggest wisely, explain fully.

III

Ghosts. Marie Jimenez often talked of ghosts.
It was never clear who was real or who
in fact was a sighting from the spirit kingdom.

From her tiny window framed in blossom
their first dog walking Xavier to his favourite bar
in the little square of Daya Vieja.

Bees, sunflowers, village goose
her song they knew well.

And when she pointed and whispered
something in Latin to the heavens
crows and a priest appeared at the fountain

kids shouting at a orange football
floating gently away to another world.

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