Santiago, April

Skin of bright olives, quizzical eyes
reflection flashing on a bike with bread
or books
cold on rocky step ledge
three spires fade into drizzly twilight
the bells ring again

Walking sticks clunking into a square
via sacred stairs
the bells ringing in dischord
and grief
as the galacian girls laugh down a impossible alley
twisted with greens and orange
where las templars hunkered
hiding three sets of bones through generations of darkness
now in a silver box of seashells.