A Pushcart at the Curb Part 3

The old strong towers are crumbled and doddering now and sit like old men smiling in the sun.

About them clamber the giggling flowers and below the sceptic sea gently laughing in daisywhite foam on the beach rocks the s.h.i.+ps with flapping sails that flash white to the white village on the sh.o.r.e.

On a wall where the path is soft with flowers the brown goatboy lies, his cap askew and whistles out over the beckoning sea the tune the village band jerks out, a s.h.i.+ne of bra.s.s in the square below: a swaggering young buck of a tune that slouches cap on one side, cigarette at an impudent tilt, out past the old toothless and smilingly powerless towers, out over the ever-youthful sea that claps bright cobalt hands in time and laughs along the tawny beaches.

_Denia_

XVIII

How fine to die in Denia young in the ardent strength of sun calm in the burning blue of the sea in the stabile clasp of the iron hills; Denia where the earth is red as rust and hills grey like ash.

O to rot into the ruddy soil to melt into the omnipotent fire of the young white G.o.d, the flameG.o.d the sun, to find swift resurrection in the warm grapes born of earth and sun that are crushed to must under the feet of girls and lads, to flow for new generations of men a wine full of earth of sun.

XIX

The road winds white among ashen hills grey clouds overhead grey sea below.

The road clings to the strong capes hangs above the white foam-line of unheard breakers that edge with lace the scarf of the sea sweeping marbled with sunlight to the dark horizon towards which steering intently like ducks with red bellies swim the black laden steamers.

The wind blows the dust of the road and whines in the dead gra.s.s and is silent.

I can hear my steps and the clink of coins in one pocket and the distant hush of the sea.

_On the highroad to Villajoyosa_

XX SIERRA GUADARRAMA TO J. G. P.

The greyish snow of the pa.s.s is starred with the sad lilac of autumn crocuses.

Hissing among the brown leaves of the scruboaks bruising the tender crocus petals a sleetgust sweeps the pa.s.s.

The air is calm again.

Under a bulging sky motionless overhead the mountains heave velvet black into the cloudshut distance.

South the road winds down a wide valley towards stripes of rain through which s.h.i.+ne straw yellow faint as a dream the rolling lands of New Castile.

A fresh gust whines through the s...o...b..nt gra.s.s pelting with sleet the withering crocuses, and rustles the dry leaves of the scruboaks with a sound as of gallop of hoofs far away on the grey stony road a sound as of faintly heard cavalcades of old stern kings climbing the cold iron pa.s.ses stopping to stare with cold hawkeyes at the pale plain.

_Puerto de Navecerrada_

XXI

Soft as smoke are the blue green pines in the misty lavender twilight yellow as flame the flame-shaped poplars whose dead leaves fall vaguely spinning through the tinted air till they reach the brownish mirror of the stream where they are borne a tremulous pale fleet over gleaming ripples to the sudden dark beneath the Roman bridge.

Forever it stands the Roman bridge a firm strong arch in the purple mist and ever the yellow leaves are swirled into the darkness beneath where echoes forever the tramp of feet of the weary feet that bore the Eagles and the Law.

And through the misty lavender twilight the leaves of the poplars fall and float with the silent stream to the deep night beneath the Roman bridge.

_Cercedilla_

XXII

In the velvet calm of long grey slopes of snow the silky crunch of my steps.

About me vague dark circles of mountains secret, listening in the intimate silence.

Bleating of sheep, the bark of a dog and, dun-yellow in the snow a long flock straggles.

Crying of lambs, twitching noses of snowflecked ewes, the proud curved horns of a regal broadgirthed ram, yellow backs steaming; then, tails and tracks in the snow, and the responsible lope of the dog who stops with a paw lifted to look back at the baked apple face of the shepherd.

_Cercedilla_

XXIII JULIET

You were beside me on the stony path down from the mountain.

And I was the rain that lashed such flame into your cheeks and the sensuous rolling hills where the mists clung like garments.

I was the sadness that came out of the languid rain and the soft dove-tinted hills and choked you with the harsh embrace of a lover so that you almost sobbed.

_Siete Picos_

XXIV

When they sang as they marched in step on the long path that wound to the valley I followed lonely in silence.

When they sat and laughed by the hearth where our damp clothes steamed in the flare of the noisy prancing flames I sat still in the shadow for their language was strange to me.

But when as they slept I sat and watched by the door of the cabin I was not lonely for they lay with quiet faces stroked by the friendly tongues of the silent firelight and outside the white stars swarmed like gnats about a lamp in autumn an intelligible song.

_Cercedilla_

XXV

I lie among green rocks on the thyme-scented mountain.

The thistledown clouds and the sky grey-white and grey-violet are mirrored in your dark eyes as in the changing pools of the mountain.

I have made for your head a wreath of livid crocuses.

How strange they are the wan lilac crocuses against your dark smooth skin in the intense black of your wind-towseled hair.

Sleet from the high snowfields snaps a lash down the mountain bruising the withered petals of the last crocuses.

I am alone in the swirling mist beside the frozen pools of the mountain.