Siesta Poem by james watkin

1/

The wind is lazy, and so am I.
To signal which it too must lie
A-dreaming! Parched in spicy alcove
Snuck us away to far-off cove

Had its spell. Whereunder am I still.
Tones of Spain's evoking did mill
We noon-waifs round, as yet which do
Of manly guiters, wherefrom flew

And yet fly, the spectres of care.
While in flamenco one did bare
On none else, verve to interpret;
Who lets not up with castenet!


2/

Tree, that rocks itself to sleep
Industry that labours to seep
Through the boughs, them to enhance
Is subject to this rite of trance.