| Madrilenas for Breakfast For two
weeks I had Madrilenas for breakfast
Octopus Gallega at midnight, for supper,
spicy, earthy red wine, tasting of Spanish feet.
I knew I was putting on weight, but they told me
I looked voluptuous. I lazed on the terrace watching
the blue-eyed child, sun running through her curls,
sampling the cat biscuits, with intense concentration.
They were as desirable to her as Madrilenas to me.
Since I came home I have failed to find content
in the chill beauty of these fells,
where Drihthelm stood for weeks in a cold pond,
sure that hell was colder.
In Montserrat an abandoned black virgin
dances the flamenco on warm nights in the hills, and sun
cascades from mountains like rain from these fells.
In England to be abandoned is to be lost.
Transformation
Once you were honoured among soldiers,
Boudicca's advisor in war. When you ran
from the folds of her cloak, the Romans fled.
Tacitus knew your worth, you were not
to be eaten; later you were hunted for food,
jugged, then judged, the devil disguised in fur.
Whenever you're slung, bloodied,
from a hunter's arm, some old witch
is found dead in her bed in the morning.
But I see you playing in Spring's clear light,
in your hare body now, life leaping
from the dark world's dying.
Keep your long ears open to all,
but guard your secrets, let only
the curlews know who you are,
why you were worshipped so.
The way you run gives us a favourable sign.
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