ALONG THE SPANISH MAIN

The wind whiplashes the shore
laughs and swirls along the sea
its waves by the home harbor
as a minstrel bard saves
the newly grown saplings
hiding near arbors
of the trees in a back yard
of a Church
as Sunday bells spring out
the poet plays his Catalan guitar
his black eyes like stars vanish
twinkling at the people
leaving the Square huge chapel
by the tall Spanish steeple
where he sings the verses
of Juan de la Cruz
a mother and wife leaves town
with her young children
with an overcoat of seasonal signs
in loose winter worn woolens
and after midnight mittens
the guitarist rushes past
many bitter citizen lives
lined up at the city gates
to let a stranger in
by the obscure rafts
he makes his paths
without passport or identity
on the cultivated soil
from Spain and Italy
over the high waves of the main
yet asks for no bread
though he is hungry
with no cash purchase
unlike a beggar
he does not complain
without ripe fruit or libation of wine
as the poet pours anointed oil
on his own head and beard
yet only on a scintillas wind
hears him playing more guitar notes
covering the prison bars he feared.