At Port Lligat

By his lichened doorway
an ammonite turd swirls with sudden flies.
Cats yawn on the rock lamina
and a rib-cage fishing boat dries

.My wine glass contains all the harbour
and figures on the familiar strand.
as expected doves flutter at the eaves
and the sundial slants no shadowed hand,

The stockinged girl leans on the rail,
one slipper loose, her hair awry
and rooftop eyes stare through carobs
as a single jet trail halves the sky.

Snaking down from Cadaques,
the twisting line of dusty track
is crossed by fluid streams of ants
that seethe around a pavement crack.

Below terraces curved around the hillock
and through the writhing olive trees,
do rooftop eggs and sugared almonds
whisper his conspiracies?

His garden seats of tortured branches
believe no passing time or dream;
the crutch supported orchard boughs
may be as ancient as they seem.

But now; if I look up quickly
and see the hazy headland clear -
the giraffe in flames I know will vanish,
then reappear, then disappear.

Christopher North

This poem was a prize-winner in the 1995 Lancaster Poetry Competition and was subsequently published in the winners' anthology.