Lusitania

Lusitania

From the highroad I look down on
a town made of stones, deep down in
the valley where a wide river flows.

There are no trees so high up only
undulating blue/gray grass that looks
as the sea near the coast of Labrador.

It has been raining, clouds break up
and sunlight swipes the town and
I see an ancient fairytale of granite

Church bells toll I’ve forgotten it is
“the day of the dead” as a procession
snails its way through narrow streets.

The pageant crosses a bridge walks to
a marble necropolis where ancestors
rest; and the breeze sighs me a dream.