The Bus to Grenada

Past brown hills circular and drawn

and olive trees that seem stenciled on the earth in rows,

we ride toward Granada. The woman in front of me

reads celebrity magazines, portraits of the stars —

Don Johnson, Britt Ekland — and the woman behind

beats her fan at regular intervals, the driver

hearing the news which tells us of Iraq, Kuwait

and Iran, and the soldiers stationed even now

on the deserts to the east. Past apartment projects

Mediterranean style and landfills of garbage, past

sluices of water and farming towns we follow

each zig-zag of the road south to the Sierra Nevadas

and the mountains rise before us like the tiles of Moorish

blue whose unbroken pattern professes a constancy

history can no longer promise.

 

 

from A Journal of the Plague Years: Poems 1979 – 1992 by Walter Holland © 1992

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