I am Don Quixote: we all know that.
I see the oranges sit kind above
the lush green-dry earth
and I run towards them.
I am Garcia Lorca: we all know that.
I watch the stream carry rhythms
and memories from North to South
and I dive in, unseen.
I am the Man from Del Monte: we all know that.
I surround myself with supplicants
and television cameras
and I laugh at the harvest.
I am both priest and the Marxist: we all know that.
I travel the peninsula
and I squabble about everything
and nothing.
I am the mountain: we all know that.
I wait.
With thanks to Leigh, whose wonderful painting inspired this,
one of my five-minute poems written on the Victoria line.