Hiya, People! Back now from the sunny southern coast of Spain to the usual leaden-grey of English skies - but at least I was still wearing my bikini when I returned early this morning! :))

Nations continue to creek and grind. This is the first in a looong series of poems from Costa de la Luz which I fully intend to bore you with for a while, and I am kicking off with this one as The Forese sparked its remembrance this morning. In the light of current global tensions, I hasten to add that it is not direct political comment or the vaunting of one faith over another; I think it has rather been inspired by the profound human passions which drive each of us uniquely, and yet which bind us universally, like blood. The actions that result can sometimes lead to the need of forgiveness, or, conversely to the bestowing of blessing that is more far-reaching than just the personal. May I add here my personal tribute to the Nigerian Catholic mother, Marie Fatayi-Williams, lovingly married to a Muslim, whose appeal rocked the heart of the world as she lamented that the travesty of violence in pursuit of political gain had robbed the world of yet another life in the form of her son in London last week. May her words be precious blooms strewn along the path that leads to peace.

... And I apologise for my still-apparent holiday bounciness! :)) I will probably be greyer tomorrow... K xx

FLAMENCO IN THE CASTLE


Night falls in open-air castle precincts. An ex-pat audience assembles to experience world-class Flamenco. The guitarist picks and strums furiously against the Levante which sends feedback roaring into microphones. A burly percussionist plays the amp he is sitting on like bongos between his thighs. A lone male voice sings a haunting wail that comes from the gut and flows with the pulse of syncopated clapping. The dancer is no young Carmen, but she is moved by a fusion of passion from across the Europe-Africa divide. She swirls and curls with clattering heels, lifted skirts and arabesque arms. The day’s heat is still intense and the crumbling walls glow warm as if with fresh blood. These stones have witnessed war, the curdling battles with thirteenth-century Moors surging into the heartland of Europe. A newborn is nursed by his English mother while his Spanish father tenderly strokes the peachy down of his head. As stage lights reflect on the baby’s face, it gives him a Christ-child aura that grants an absolution and bestows here a new benediction.