Once these homes were built
by men like me,
with balconies – how they mocked –
where to care for cows is hard enough,
and wives and mothers asked no more
than milk and children,
an odd festival,
and enough meat to last the winter.
But you might have been published in Madrid,
or fêted in Seville;
left the women and the mountains
to their timeless game,
and played your own.
Your balcony says enough,
on evenings like this;
moon rising over mountains,
still forest and a distant owl,
calling to me,
and now to you across the years:
‘Hola y gracias.’
We are staying in a traditional village 600m above the valley.