The Sacromonte Valentine

[smokingboot]

Or

For Frederico Garcia Lorca


Sacromonte, Sacromonte
Don’t take your purse or phone,
Take cash in your pockets
And don’t go by yourself.
But the poet won’t listen,
She is full of red wine
And all she hears are footsteps
Footsteps to Sacromonte.

Sacromonte, Sacromonte
Her hands unfurl stories
Bird bright, reptile supple,
Taut as a new drumskin
Her feet move and shout
And others move too
Wood and wineskins keep time
In the smoke of Sacromonte.

Sacromonte, Sacromonte,
His smile is a bullet
While screaming she wakes
To laughter and coffee.
In Sacromonte she dreamed
Of Lorca the poet.
Where is she now that
She dreams of Sacromonte?

© Debbie Gallagher 14th February 2015