the last hope gone, we find ourselves in sunshine

with family in Marbella beside a fountain sculpture

of beauty and unity, reflecting civic pride,

what might have been, playing with our

 

Anglo-Spanish grandchild on the swings and slides.

She careers across the pavement on a little bike,

I struggle to keep up with her, and as I screw

my features into laughter faces, she mimics every one.

 

She calls the motorway tunnels along the Costa del Sol

the big dark.  That evening the people

of the barrio sing carols beneath our flat, with guitars,

harmonies, their brazier a beckoning beacon, bright.