Just one song

“And this is the song of one summer
among many beautiful summers,
when the dust rises and dances
and the sky is a blue, distant foliage…”*

leafing through fresh aired lungs
I stop and catch each and every inhalation
the years that leap along marbled veins
paths perused as stations of the cross

re-crossing back and back to the faraway tree
a greeting for every season but best remembered
the leaf green fluttering in folds
on the brow where the breeze was wildest

and a lukewarm breeze blew in all our breaths
powder puffing cheeks before kisses
up where the meadow larks pitched a psalm
strung from the stars to dust and dry grass

and smells dried on the tongue like spittle
thymes thirsted and broke open to the touch
in the immensity of blue distance vapours vanishing
and thereafter the miraculous seas parted

that season of summer just one song
among a chorus of multitudes


Pimp these words series -using another’s first lines to set my poetry in motion-*’The Song of Summer’ by Columbian poet Aurelio Artura: “Y esta es la canción del verano” – click link to appreciate his poem in full [since I’m learning the language I find Spanish poetry a lovely and useful aid]


  1. There’s a dry, restrained, almost Augustan grandeur to some of the Spanish poets I’ve read (always, unfortunately, in translation). I’m not familiar with Artura but this reminds me of Machado and Aridjis, revisiting a once-holy place, scanning a dry fountain in an empty town square. Memories of love’s zenith are like this, observed from the nadir–same place, “up where the meadow larks pitched a psalm / strung from the stars to dust and dry grass”; once a summer a song, now drowned out by “multitudes.” Fine work.


    1. Thank you Brendan for the poets mention and maybe it is the Augustan grandeur that appeals – has something of late 19th century about them which is my favourite genre for English lit. Appreciate that things are lost in translation but also something is transmitted – and you definitely picked up on this observation from the nadir.


  2. strung from the stars to dust and dry grass
    and smells dried on the tongue like spittle

    such crisp imagery and it all reads with such a calming melody – nice


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