Seville
Bells as old as iron
Ring out into furnace heat
A sound new to me,
But ancestral to waiters
Serving coffee, water and more.
Later, limping from shade to shade
I visualise the square tower,
Its black cups rocking upside down.
There is no pattern or rhythm I can understand
But for those they call, obvious.
This culture is not mine.
This heat, this Saint�s Day procession
With its custom and music
Exist here only,
As does the municipal motif on the hot iron grid.
Then at night � more bells.
Three sets ringing the hours separately.
Even time is different.
A lizard crawls my wall
As I continue an uneasy, damp sleep.
(October 2003)
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