Menorca (poem) | John Coyne (Ethiopia)
John writes — MENORCA From the red tile terrace of the Port Mahón Hotel I watch the sun touch Spain. The harbor water is prickly white a painting by Matisse. Boats glide against the tide and disappear in dawn. Menorca, mucky with heat, wakes to the roar of Vespinos, and English tourists breakfasting. I walk to town in the shade of whitewashed walls. At the Plaça Reial I order café con leche, a sugary Ensaimada, and read yesterday’s news. The English follow, crowding the cobblestones, crowding me to the sea. In Playa de Son Bou, under a thatched roof I drink another cerveza and closely watch topless Germans. I swim to sea, float beneath an empty sky. It is August in the Balearics. But I am safe from Vespinos, tourists, and yesterday’s news. Time has stopped at Barcelona.
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So, John, here I am, back from the Olympics and trying my best to settle in, and with your poem…