Wish you were here, that is what we write on postcards, words of longing from sunny days moments for aspiring rest and and here it's so hot that I can't find the full stop and the heat drips sweet pearls of sweat between shoulders blades as we spot the bull upon the hill and we swim in mountain pools where the water is the kind of deep green where souls get lost to river mermaids and my littlest says she is scared of the sullen monsters lurking below and I know how she feels and we sleep under a tree in the midday shade a family huddled in olive shadows and visit a hermitage up on a hill where my heart stops and go to a bar which feels like a western where the customers stare as we walk through the curtain of plastic cords and we wonder if cowboys will come striding in and tell us it time we were leaving town and so we sit with the piles of old men in uniform white shirts in the corner of parks where the trees give shadow and the day rolls on from water to water, heat and liquid marking time, in aragon, southern aragon, wish you were here...
