El Torcal, February 2008

I'm in the sun bleached
Vulture wind washed
Rill drain tessellations
Of limestone chaos; El Torcal.

Early in the year, but
Still overflowing with songs
Bright late-day sun rays
Warm & pink the layers.

Green shadow drain flues
Between the pillars
Of mountain might, all
Riddled by emormous simulacra.

Standing guard over them
In giant stillness, watching
The turning day, year
Turning into spring-light.

Ibex click  their
Rock climber finger-hooves
Gently make their way
To the next sunlit grazing spot.

The old fox leads us out,
Over the edge, toward the sun
Where there isn't any maze path
For us to follow.

I touch a stone polished smooth
By thousands of fingers
Of untold years of human
Presence in the labyrinth.

Ribbed, veined
Post-mortem pink, like
Something in a butcher's shop
Rock cut where we all must pass.

It's rough & crazy down below
Smells green & good,
Like home, a dene in Durham,
But above, it is a desert.

Above that, on warm air swirls,
The vulture party passes over
In a dark finger-wing swoop
Out toward the Wilderness.

Barry Patterson, April 2008.