Odyssey

Clouds of white houses
are all you can see
from the plane.
Brown earth and black
volcanic sand 
battle in the gaps.

The tiny airport shimmers
In late afternoon sun
The red-brown heat envelopes us

We move like pilgrims
into this foreign land;
pagans to worship
the ancient sun-god.
Here, there will be feasting.

The bus moves like a leviathan 
through narrow, stuccoed streets
of snow glare white.
Heavy bouganvillea
a heady purple scent lingers like opium clouds
surrounding my senses.
The heat sussurates 
around me
murmuring softly 
of dangerous sleep,
salt taste on my lips
washed down with San Miguel
at a pound a litre

on the main drag
there are palm trees
and bars line us
with cool tempting terraces
cold beer and pretty girls

las senoritas
from whom a sudden burst 
of dark-eyed flamenco passion
would not surprise;
heavy steel blue-black hair,
thick lashed and dangerously
beguiling eyes
flicker in momentary interest
?Hables usted ingles?
The police here carry guns.

we escape 
into the countryside
of alpine roads and
mediterranean terraces,
where dynamite blasted vineyards
cling precariously to life
on volcanic rock.

in the middle 
we find the volcano
where imported people 
ride imported camels,
heavily after lunches 
of  imported soup.

The glaring sun
roasts the sand
like bright orange rust
enshrining the mountains
in vanity's homage
the rocks remain
unchanged

on the coast 
we find the cool blue caves
millenial formations
stretching from floor and ceiling
and the blue sucks at our bodies
draining the red
the sun has placed there
drawing from us the life
that once we knew
veiling memory
in the immensity of a life
where the growth is measured
in generations.

Allan J. Dixon