Reams of calico sail, ribbon along the main street,
bougainvillea weaving its way up to the
scented rooftops sending you
giddy with herby pungency.
Arbours of plumptuous fruit trees,
limes, avocado and oranges,
orbs for Eve to pluck for free,
denying the supermercado of trade.
Cats drinking on edges of water fountains
containing wicker bales soaking
of the basket maker next door,
to make, then barter his craft.
Whitewashed townhouses nuzzling
side by side with hotels, having
lines of chairs outside where
‘ancianos españoles’ pass the time of day.
Leaning on the wall of Calle San Jose
underneath Catholic effigies,
Garda Civil smoke and chat
in the shade of the calico sails
gazing out to rolling vistas of vines and olives
leading into the ‘pueblos blancos’
of Pampaneira, Capileira, and Bubion.