Sweet scent of sweat rises off Matuchi, that rich raw hide
of chestnut stallion allocated to me as if I could ride

bold confidence he leans down, bored, to munch on pampas grass
pulled forward, I compensate with patience

iron soles stomp, clomp familiar rocky paths echoing
crystal waves of sound through Polylepis dotted foothills

sneakered feet nudge past cordon cactus as we are lulled in a line
of dappled greys, white and brown, pinto and roan

through Argentinian Andes amateurs’ knuckled hands grip reins
while local horses stumble and trip, soles slip

sighs spill in tune with silence in the valley’s afternoon mist
trepidation hides behind walls of smiles, denim and dust

through an amphitheatre of pink sunsets and shadowy hinterland
sweat-soaked hides carry intrepid travellers back

to smoke-infused beef and red Malbec, Mendoza’s soul
salty decadence in the dark amidst mountains of lust

Summer swirl
a cacophony of kaleidoscopes
in the murky blue,
pink and violet,
itinerant, dipping, tumbling
on the tide
enchanted dancers
mystical flight
paths defined by currents
chop and sway
wings of coloured allure
their final journey
a charmed display

Tree snapped
encroachment still    now
but for wind and sea

devastation left entangled
amongst          the living green
succumbing to intrusion like a disease

desolation imperfect
natives cling to imposed change like an axe
forced abscission of broken pieces

the will to survive, to senesce,       resilience
innate amongst survivors
perseverance a modus operandi

dehisce          seminate        germinate
seedlings peep through decaying humus
nature’s will               endurance

Down cobbled lanes bequeathed with history, alive with the indulgence of thin cut fritz, mayonnaise dipped, Duvall and Hoegaarden, full of grand choices, Belgium waffles with sugar clusters that coddle my soul on brusque wintry Antwerp days, a chocolate booth styles charming assortments of chocolates with parfait fillings. But the warmth from decadence, antique alleys and gothic facades leaves me wanting. For the sun has been hidden for six months, blocked by a low ceiling of dense grey cloud. Only on flying through the bleak barrier, do I finally come out

to meet the sky’s blue arc

concealed below

though untouched, pristine

and yearned for waves of zonlicht

                                                                                                             feed my dearth