1970

MIRIAM AT BURGOS IN 1970.

Inside Burgos Cathedral
Miriam was in shorts
and tee-shirt
and I nearby

 

and a woman
next to her
said casa de Dios
Miriam said something

 

back in Spanish
and the woman
scowled at her
and moved away

 

muttering in Spanish
under her breath
what did she say?
I asked

 

Miriam said
the old bat
said this
was the house of God

 

and that I
was not dressed
correctly
I looked

 

at the woman
who was glaring
at Miriam
what did you

 

say to her?
I asked
I told her
go wash her fanny

 

I nodded
and looked
at the glaring
Spanish dame

 

I spoke no Spanish
but whatever
the dame was muttering
didn't sound

 

like a blessing
I tried to focus
on the mass
the words(now

 

in Spanish not Latin)
Miriam folded
her arms
her eyes sharp

 

as pencils
her red hair
tight curls
smelling of sun oil

 

and scent
a guy in front
had his eyes closed
muttering a prayer

 

in Spanish
the priest
at the altar
was colourful

 

like a beetle
arms out stretched
Miriam whispered
I'll need a drink

 

after this
and something more
later in the tent
she smiled at me

 

her eyes bright
and alive
and mischievous
I had lost my way

 

in the mass
but the beetle priest
was lifting the host
Christ was present

 

and I bet
the old Spanish dame
was giving Him
the low down

 

on Miriam
but I knew
He'd understand
His love

 

was wide and deep
and Miriam and her promises
would have to wait
and keep.

 

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ONE MOROCCAN BEACH.

Miryam walks along the beach
in her swimming attire, some red
and flowered design, Benedict
notes, walking just behind, having

 

left the two Moroccan guys behind
with the camel, with whom she'd
posed while he took camera shot.
Bet they don't do that everyday, she

 

says, swaying her delicious backside
side to side. No, guess not, least
not by the look on their faces,
Benedict says. She laughs, does

 

a Monroe kind of walk and wiggle.
We came down here last night, she
says, it was quite romantic what
with the moon, stars and warm air.

 

She stops and turns to look at him.
Was it about here? she asks. He
gazes about him, at the sand and
tufts of grass, the sky blue and the

 

odd white clouds, could be, hard
to say, it being dark and all. You
found your way around all right,
she says, smiling. Well, a guy gets

 

to know his way around after a while,
bit like a seaman gets to know the sea,
the rough times and the smooth,
the high tides and the low, when

 

its best to set out and when to stay
in port. She frowns. Is that what it's
like for you guys? Just like that? No,
he says, just being philosophical, in

 

fact, it was a good evening, a fine
fuck, he says softly. Is that all? she
asks. She stands there her hands
on hips, her head to one side. No,

 

of course not, it's just us guys hate
to get all soft about these things,
he says. She pouts. Soft? These
things? she says. Can't you just

 

say it was romantic? She says, is
it hard to say that? A fine fuck? 
Is that easier to say? It's just one
syllable instead of three, he says.

 

She turns and walks on through
the sand. He follows, taking in
her figure, her side to side ass,
the tight red hair. OK, he says, it

 

was a romantic night, I loved the
whole set up, the stars, the moon,
you and me, the sand, the soft tufts
of grass, the sex, the kisses, the holds.

 

She stops and turns and gazes at him.
It has to mean something, she says,
otherwise we waste our lives in such
pointlessness. He nods, zooms in on

 

her small tits, her eyes, her whole features.
Sure we do, he says, you're right, it
was one fine romantic never to be
forgotten night. She smiles and walks

 

to him and kisses him and holds him.
He holds her, feels her, senses her lips
on his, and out of the corner of his eye,
he sees the two Moroccan guys and

 

camel walk away up the beach, they'll
never know this, he thinks, feeling smug,
far beyond their lives or random reach.

 

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