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.