The Barcelona T-Shirt
For Caty
Descending into the transfer hall of the terminal
we had little sense of the city, more like a grape
tasted from whole bunch draped in a street stall
in Majorca an hour away by short-haul Fokker.
So unsurprising really when you hear the sweet call
of one German to another on that island place
where they flock über alles. In dale and dell
their leder hosen and knapsacks flash where
Robert strode back from La Cala to the tall
house on the slopes, Ca N’Alluny by Deià,
after his daily swim. And still we recall
those limestone ledges when, back in Barcelona
amid cram of black and yellow taxis, sprawl
of tapas bars, we prepare for obeisances before
myriad Miros or Picassos on gallery wall
or the archly crafted apertures of door
and window in every Antoni Gaudi hall.
Until sated with the throng of art we recall
amid those Ramblas hordes the words
of Robert of the streaming hair, a bard’s
Welsh curse: at each step withal
may they catch their feet and fall!
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