ESCORIAL

(for Professor Anthony J. Cervone)

last night I dreamed of the Escorial
of the paintings of saints with angular faces
Toledo in grey and the storms gathering

la vida es sueño or it may have been and the siglo de oro
the siglo de oro the infanta with roses in a square of light
and skies glisten dark plum overnight

and I am singing a vagrant's tune

Garcia Lorca,kaleidoscope moon

moon of the verdant green
moon of the everlastingly verdant green
over the sobbing balconies.

I'm in the book of the small blue flowers;

how shall I play my pavane for you for the hour is late.
the pavane for you and the piano locked.
the bell tower's weathering of storms grows pale

too hard to believe. or to contemplate

a children's lullaby etched in silver.
a paper bird before the war.
a paper bird singing with brilliant plumage

a bird that cannot sing anymore.

the stage sets adored in miniature thrashed.
the sky as pink as the Alhambra at last
all of Andalusia gleams the rust of autumn

and life as a dream of a dream in a dream is past:
tiene que ser de esta moda
a caged music flying into the gold

into the gold of the siglo de oro
Cervantes furtive at the windowpane
laughing at the thought of fame.

the matador's cape is lined in flame,

Segovia. the music of amber.

flamenco barters by the hour.
while I am in a high high tower
with clouds and angels beckoning.

I want to go back to the Escorial.
to the way that I felt then from only the pictures in books.Iberia, to
the oranges composed in a bowl of blue

and that was the whole summer I learned Spanish
the way that I wanted to.
the soul of it the subtle shadings.

as if the kings were looking for you.
all the hidden Magi, for legendary Spain...

were looking for you for costly,
for lost lost time..

in the preterit of dreams.

mary angela douglas 18 july 2020;24 june 2022