Sunday, 9 June 2013

NOW, WHEN I HEAR THE "ARANJUEZ"*


Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",
a midnight fountain
spills its crystaldark ice
into the streets of Granada.

Lit by a halfmoon,
slanting its gold against this winter Nevada,
I hear the words of my dream.

Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",
I smell the green scent
of oranges we stole
from the groves of a real castle in Spain.

Walking in the haze of December,
I hear the words of my dream.

Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",
the broken steps to my life
wind back through the dusk
And I wake to the swaying cypress tree
which lies between me and the song of my dreams.

Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",
I hear the songs from my plain,
the plain which, before, was less than a dream,
the words of a dream which were less than a song -

Now, the song of my dream which I hear in the hills of December,
the real dream of such a winter as this,
now, when I hear the "Aranjuez".


*The "Concierto de Aranjuez", by JoaquĆ­n Rodrigo.


RW, first draft, c.1967, second draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013



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