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Flamenco
I’m
rather an absent-minded chap;
Where
it was I am not clear
Somewhere
- there on your Spanish map.
The
name? I forget. It was somewhere queer.
There
were mountains, of course, and a stream that leapt
Rioting
under the old stone bridge,
A
huddle of low-pitched roofs that crept
Up
to the gaunt church tower on the ridge.
There
in the velvet Spanish night,
Suddenly,
up from the village square
Soared
a voice like a rocket’s flight
Quivering
through the perfumed air.
In
a song that seemed like a savage prayer
To
some old, forgotten, heathen god.
Soared
and die; and the whole affair
Ended
for me. But it still seems
odd
That
I glimpsed one moment - what? Life’s
meaning?
I
can’t explain or forget at all
That
strange unearthly gypsy keening
In
a village whose name I can’t recall.
1964
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