El Rocio

El Rocio


It’s hot at the bus station, dust whirls about like
tiny malevolent tornados stinging my eyes, shirt
clings to my back as a tiresome child; my bag is
heavy too, daren’t put it down, contains nothing
much, but its all I have got and a passport giving
me an identity. Have to ask when the bus to
Spain leaves, got to go to El Rocio where I have
a cottage and my dog, waits for me. They say, it
isn’t so, that I’m deluded confusing an old dream
with reality. I know they are mistaken, if I can
get on the right bus, one that doesn’t make u-turns
with a stern voiced driver telling me to get off, I’ll
be alright. I was happy in El Rocio, a woman sang
me lullabies, perhaps she was my mother.