Flying over water, Catalonia

old cambrils2

Michaela arranged it.  On the quayside

in old Cambrils she sells tickets

to seekers after thrills, those

who would glide above blue waters

lit by shimmering summer sunlight.

old cambrils1

She passed us over to her two friends

on board the smartly sleek speed boat.

Once beyond the harbours arms,

once out on the open water

they prepared our safety harness,

our tackle untangled, our ropes made ready

while we watched, staying out of harm’s way.

They smiled in friendship and aloft we went.


Our big, beautiful brightly coloured

parachute became our sail.

The rope holding us to the deck

became our shared umbilical cord.

Together in the breeze above

we smiled and laughed in delight

as we gently turned along the coast.


Changing  patterns in the sea were visible now,

forty shades of blue water beneath

and above all so peaceful and serene.

No adrenaline rush this, instead we

were content to let the water, the air, ourselves,

gently flow.

bluebird cambrils

There never were…

There never were…

hayfields, in my childhood’s

fondly cherished memories.

No rural idylls nurtured our youngest years.

Between us and the open fields, barbed wire

swung idly in the breeze across gaps

torn in tired hedges. By such

means they tried keeping us outside.

Beyond, fields were freshly ploughed,

ready for planting rows of public housing.

When I was younger still,

memories, carefully cherished since,

were formed of grey slag heaps.

Waste material brought up from mines,

heaped high like dark hay ricks

where great wheels turned,

raising cages from the deep.

Across the valley beyond lay shadows

of distant steel mills’ hazy outlines

in setting summer suns.

As children we had our space,

ruins carved out by bombs that fell

from planes in terrible days long before.

Ruined houses gave us cellars to hide in,

broken stairs reached skywards,

begging little feet to climb ever higher,

always seeking new thrills.

Crumbling concrete pathways

were our hedgerows.

Mind you, busy

bumble bees buzzed

for us too,

butterflies blundered by,

while weeds flourished,

brightening old rubble,

scenting summer evenings

where we played.

%d bloggers like this: