A BOHEMIAN EXISTENCE

I know a bank where the cabbage trees grow,

where the grass is patchy,

from intermittent bodies that laze beneath the boughs.

It is noon time, high-sun time,
the time when all of Spain is lost in a half-dream.

Lull'd by the breezes that pick up the edges of your hair and the palm fronds,

it is easy to be still, without moving for an hour or two.

Go searching through this grove, though,
and you may find:

 Guitar-players
hoola-hoopers and slack-liners like tightrope walkers -

sending laughter and soft notes through the canopy,

till they reach you as you swing in a hammock

drinking bad white wine

and eating samosas that the ragged people offer for a euro.