Manolete's Last Words: a Year In Madrid Poem by J.A. Hartley

Summer bisects sidewalks:
in the shade old José shuffles breadwards.
Between bollards, street bleached bright.
Against red wood plaza walls, the bull slumps, bleeds, dies.
Lovers writhe on swimming pool lawns:
skies shine, shutters clatter down.

Winter brings the Burberry out.
El Retiro's boat tank clinks with ice.
Snow slices free sierra passes.
Old José rocks with Ana, his wife,
before a floating fire of forms - screams, eyes -
waiting for grandkids, TV on.
Fingers touching. Quiet. Calm.

Spring dries up the reams of rain,
draws out the shades, ups José's grin.
Ana's chair unfurls in the sunny street,
beach beer-baptised, heat throbbed beats;
skin once occluded bathed in light
tables on pavements - cañas, wine -
black glinting glass, cloudless sky.

Jośe falls, another leaf,
Ana's arms a bare elm tree.
Below a wind-streaked, breaking sky -
Madrilenean square, autumn morning.
The seasons in José's open eyes.
Genuflecting, Ana sighs,
kisses his bald, grey head, distraught -
'All for nought, cariño', she whispers,
'All for nought, all for nought.'