Lying here on a bed in the sun,
I watch as a little boy
falls, like an exhausted cloud from the mountain-top,
floating through the air
to a place where shadows slink over sleeping villages
as pictures of antiquity dance their insomniac tale
down the cobbled streets that lead to houses dozy with slumberous siesta souls,
hidden from the wasps, bloated from their gluttonous mid-afternoon lunches shared
with tiptoeing fingers leading to terracotta plates scattered with peras y pepino,
over-flowing with pimientos a la riojana nestled like infant birds chirping to pink-purple peaches scattered with ebony-green mint.
Lying here on a bed in the sun,
I watch as the little boy drifts down to the swimming pool,
where sonorous soothing voices slip from
voluptuous bodies, curved and moulded like whipped cream from their submission to
a multitude of days bowing to Bacchus’ call.
This rubicund fellow walks past these Rubenesque Roamnesque bodies,
whose palms rest on sunset-bronzed stomachs and lazy caramel-toffee tinged legs
and whose tendrils of luminous-bleached Rapunzal-like hair flow behind IQ-uninterested heads.
Below and beyond, this stereotypical scene silent waves cover unseen sand,
Below and beyond a lone yacht drifts across bath-water ocean,
ever changing, arising and passing away
(anicca, anicca, anicca)
as particles of water&salt present themselves to their peers,
before bowing bashfully beneath them
away from the breeze that blows above
and summer-saluting to depths only the mermen know.