Spain 1937 by Jonathan Beale

‘Your lawful acts drink an unhealthy repose from the upturned lip of this vessel, secretly, But if it is always time for change.’  John Ashbury

Spain.  Red raw as the sun blistered skins it harboured, carrying too, too much.
A nation pumiced by, those blinding winds cutting reason down with fear.
“Today, strangely quiet”; the coffee existed in scent, that fine line broken.

Their sallow faces; emerging, raw and hard as chorizoed sculptures’
“I heard the children.”  Their voices as arrows in the wind cutting their innocent teeth in a-too- brief- unfair-youth.

Trying to find some new avenue in the same-old history play; that they never will play in. Their delicate voices blind to the clouds secret.  “We smiled at each other”
Just like the children I saw waiting for the train.  Journeys’ are invariably fickle.

“It was the high walls here; the people are so small, scuttling in fear, as mice.
My senses awoke: the blend of cooking meat, frying onions, fear struck flesh.
The stale smell of Rioja from last night’s brief escape.  The nightmare real as stone.

There was a noise heard overhead; wielding some death cry, an inevitability.
“I paused.  I saw some coffee being sold.  I took a quick slug like a bullet
Then, feeling my sweaty finger, taught, then realising it may be me having to pull the trigger…

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