However small, it’s still an orchard –
three limes, a pomegranate and a kumquat.
Each stands in a circle of shade
and bedding plants. Sweetpeas brought
from England have died at the foot
of their canes. Above, the pepper tree
that went wild in a sudden storm,
throwing its branches all over the place,
hangs droops of coral berries against
a calendar sky. Cones, black droppings
in the dust, a fragment of rope
knotted at both ends, a fleeting shadow –
a swallow if you look up. But no,
I keep my gaze on the ground.
If the trees were horses, they’d be foals
and the pepper tree their barn.
Written at the Almassera Vella 2012