The Waves, The Wind, The Warblers
In the small town of Lido, on the northern shore of Spain
I fell asleep and woke up in a tiny albergue on the cliffs
with the sound of waves crashing into the black, spongy rocks
far below, my body exhausted from only walking, walking
for weeks, walking, walking.
And, in a field, also in the north of Spain, I cannot say where,
amidst grass as high as my knees, I lay down during the afternoon
siesta, fell asleep, and woke up to the heat of the Summer cut
by waving, leafy branches above me, with the sound of the wind
whooshing through the forest, tickling my ears, soothing my sunburnt skin.
And now, when I awake in my own bed it is to the chirp
of a sparrow or a titmouse on the balcony, perched
upon a branch in the bundle we have assembled for them, announcing
its arrival, departure, exalting the day, informing the others
of food, its tiny round head rotating
like the domed top of an observatory to the stars.
I want to recognise these three offerings
of nature: may I remember that not all of us
are privileged enough to know them, to have
the space to hear them. Even I, in moments
of darkness, under the mechanical chuff of the Locomotive,
forget these three beautiful sounds:
the waves, the wind, and the warblers.