BARCELONA
Sangria-shot, that selfish summer low,
Scrambling in vain for adulthood, cards lost
In camping scrub, indulged, nowhere to go
In Gaudi’s city, racking up the cost
Of kindness, slouching to an Irish pub
Of English slobs just off La Rambla’s traps,
On edge, their braying sparks off stub on stub
And pint on pint of spiritual collapse.
Where came redemption, or at least the lift
Required? That curious racist London girl?
the slow dawn of contempt perhaps helped shift
the fog and reset my place in the world.
The cricket’s on, I’m going home to wash, to hide
From this wrecked boy, and wait with hope for turning tide.
VALENCIA
A vital childhood story built from clips
Inside my brain, Valencia, the flash
Of wildling light, we shelter quick for chips,
Tortilla tears, the calm after the crash
And sand too hot for feet, they stumble, bridge
Half broken down at Montenejos, stones
Thrown, smell of drains and orangeade, a fridge
Stocked cold with meat, red cheese and ice cream cones.
We sing Prince Charming, jumping chair to chair -
A Spanish soap that stings, a bandaged boy,
I learn to cry, the football’s gone, resolve in air
Planes, prawns to scare, clay figures, home ahoy.
I am all leaping memories too sharp to crack
And some days all that I can do’s jump back.
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