["I was certain there were storks in that place a few years ago. The swans are still there, though". Foto di Marzia Poerio]
The birds are singing in Pujol’s garden.
Muted excitement on a taut string.
They know the breach of promise that is spring.
Yellow mimosa brings out the ardent
flies, but there’s snow still on the foothills.
Blossom surfs in the wind. Cherry. Almond.
The trees won’t bud till seagulls leave the land,
and the storks start to nest in church steeples.
Camellias that flourish like blushing brides,
are the foolish virgins of the Pyrenees.
Their bloom blighted by the last blast of hail.
Vines won’t unknot with sap till March divides.
Then blackbirds will sing with full throated ease,
and you can listen for the nightingale.
