The Poetry Society

Café España: its dazzle of aluminium,

polished steel, the glossy insouciance

of waiters, their high voices

pitching orders to the bar.

You order Cuba Libre

in half decent Castillian

your hand on mine as rum,

and ice jostle in a glass;

I sip a bleary beer

stare out at fishing boats

unpacking the night's catch,

each fish body nickel-bright

as change from a suddenly

remembered dream.

The light is too much;

too blinding a day, too little to say;

we unfold the map,

searching for the name of a place

the place of a name:

Figueres, Perelada, Cadaques,

those bays infolding, those roads

winding towards each other,

like the sense of touch

through sleep.

I'm watching you announce

the day's co-ordinates,

your lips wet with liberty,

my finger tracing the circle

your glass just left.