SPANISH WINTER:

The Cold winds and castanets, chatter in the icy air,

Where the chilling guitar fingers strum my raven hair,

The Brazen breezes howl through the sierras of my soul,

As rose-vino tinted dust leads carob leaves a merry roll,

And the sad lowing of the bull chills my old frozen bones,

As the icy ancient river runs away with cold grey stones,

The goose-pimpled salty sea sits solitary grey and shivers,

While ruffled feathers of the ravens, lift and gently quivers,

The distant winter voices, stamped angry and flamencoed,

In the boned almond trees, the promise of spring is echoed,

Winter in ancient streets is chilled, where old bulls go to run,

But at least the sky above is blue and always there is the sun.