These are two short pieces I wrote in Parc Ciutadella in Barcelona. The first is from yesterday, the second was written in November last year.
The air’s still got an edge.
It’s bright, though.
the sun’s having a dry run,
before the coming months.
I was here in November, the trees were bare.
The ground had retained its summer heat,
now expelling its winter chill.
The date says it’s winter
But the weather disagrees.
Browned leaves tumble
contradicting that heat on the breeze.
Hard dry ground
Grass withered like its mid-July.
And the park is full of life.