November Sunday

 It’s a soft November Sunday


It’s a soft November Sunday

In the hills above the village

Down below the traffic snakes

On hairpin turns with hard handbrakes. 


Masca, the hidden hamlet,

Until mid century 

No now longer hidden

With horns and engines riven. 


A deserted lane leads to a quiet cemetery

Above the town above the sea

Proud to honor Santiago

Who sailed to Spain two thousand years ago. 


Amazing stretch that covers centuries 

That binds a hero in Galicia green 

To the Temple in Jerusalem 

And to a village above Canary clouds.  


It’s November yet the sun

Embraces the volcanic terrain

Serene in its fierce disdain 

Of days and years and history. 


Land of eternal spring

Anchored in this pining heart

That beats each year with greater love

That seeks redemption in its loss. 

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