A Morning in Spain

Up early, out of a dream
of tall perplexing women.
Warm on the terrace, with sun
staining the clumsy town.
Spanish, in children’s voices,
and olive trees and sea
fasten the day down
and tell me where I am.

A cock crows my alarm.
Turkeys cluck in the rubble.
The children, drowsed and warm,
trail to the breakfast table,
to grapes and figs in season.
The dream dies down,
and I wonder in the sun
what to make of the morning.

To see if I am the same,
I speak, in my own voice,
an answer which satisfies
something the children ask,
and go to my blank desk,
balancing day and dream,
to see what light will come
with the help of a lucky rhyme
or a word in the right quarter.