A gorge of towering cliffs;

the Guadalmina unseen

below the road. We visit

a park to feed rabbits

with carrots, take our turns

with party pieces

at the open-air theatre,

while other families wait

impatiently to photograph

and film first communioners,

one young girl bedecked

like a bride.

 

I read a poem from my phone

about Simon Armitage,  

Gillian performs

I’m Leaning on a Lamp-Post

between the pillars, Alba

dances something from Frozen,

and Kate and Fran do Baby Shark.

Afterwards we promenade round

the pond, and I ask Alba if she

knows about tadpoles.

Of course I do,

she answers, not rudely.

 

We came here hoping to read

lots of stories. But this is

the screen generation.

Never mind. Forget the

bum-aching outward journey,

and the unruly return flight

from Malaga, when someone

mistakenly took our cabin bag

in the melee leaving the plane.

Bougainvillea petals litter the road.

I still feel alive, when

I’m in Andalucia.