just north of Barcelona

just north of Barcelona

 

la Plaça fills gradually -

ancients in wheelchairs

gather in the shade

of wild olive and myrtle trees

to smoke and sometimes

reminisce of old days

 

they used to talk bitterly

of the murals on the walls of

La Capella of Sant Eulalia - 

looted by Franco in thirty-six

 

but now they prefer

to sit in  silence

 

broken by coughing

toy dogs yapping

pigeons scrabbling

and grunting greeting

old comrades arriving

 

down the tangle

of shuttered alleys

balconies sprout from

bullet pocked houses

 

in dusty terracotta

wisteria droops

yuccas deter burglars

and cactuses flourish 

 

senyera estelada flutter

in a listless breeze

 

a rusted bike hangs chained

a caged bird sings the life it had

 

downtown sign-boards

offer plato combinados

 

(good price today... special)

 

snagging the swollen wallets of tourists

searching out folk-art 

amid the hubbub of

sports and karaoke bars

and euro-pop from flip-flop shops

 

La Capella of Sant Eulalia

stands neglected, locked, barred

the congregation long dispersed

 

the wheelchairs know the history

but lips are sealed.