BELOW THE SIERRA

New Zealand Listener, Volume 34, Issue 870, 6 April 1956, Page 20

BELOW THE SIERRA

HE brown tower broken on the cliff. The shining black hoof of the goat. The hillside terraced with random stone Where hoarded water feeds the olive. A shepherd in a tagged coat On the harsh skyline stands alone. An old church and two crooked streets, A guesthouse solid as a farm, A whitewashed room flooted with blue tile, Red blankets and coarse sundried sheets And the cool darkness lying calm Outside the window, mile on mile. The tatteted piper stands and blows A kind of fanfare or salute Upon his pipe of polished cane; Then; chariging key, the music flows Like water from that pastoral flute Through sleepy valleys of the brain. Above the shadow of the hills Iberian stars are mildly bright, The new moon lifts out of a cloud, And the long hollow valley fills With milk of phosphorescent light And the piper’s music sweet and loud. The agile melancholy tune Winds and unwinds its vatying stream Inside and outside of the mind. The sense dissolves. Somewhere the mioon Is slow!y sinking in a dream Where travellers set out to find Senne antique scene of living rock, Of horsemen tall on the hillside, Of armoured ghosts upon thé march And gods in trees. The minstrel cock Strikes up; galactic darkness rides —

Uncer Ene SkY $ trlumphal arch:

M. K.

Joseph