Spanish Barfly Poem by Phil Lowe

To pass the time I order too many wet Sunday afternoon olives.
Some tapping Catalan tongue calls from foreign shores;
Ensalata mixta, patatas bravas and honey coloured cerevesa.
Gaudi inspired flagons reflect deeply controlled rhythms.

Concentric ceramics baked in the Spanish sun compete with
copies of Matisse, Picasso, flamenco inspired dark wood,
mustard tiles and twisted whirlpools of black wrought iron.
Paper white bulbs of fresh garlic are strung from heaven.

Outside the cold winter snows swirl; flurries enter unbidden.
Flakes melt like waiters upon closing time.
From the restaurant heart a girlish laugh flings open its notes
And the dried flowers come to life and butterflies pour forth.

As I sip my barfly beer the butterflies circle slowly as fingers
in passion moving with the torrid currents until one by one
they form an undulating garland of reds, blues and sea green.
The door blows open and they disappear into the winter skies.