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 Joaquín Rodrigo.

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

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013