Driving to take the ferry to Cadiz

by Greg McNellie
 
We drove through southern Spain
under a canopy of cobalt sky,
past seeds planted by Gaudi-
grape vines that twisted upwards
and rained down wine.

Father wore a hooded robe,
he clutched a black staff
and motioned toward the road ahead.
Mother was resplendent in her shroud,
with eyes of clay dipped in sherry and glazed.

On the way to that gleaming white city
I sat ready to lose god at ten.
I wondered about epiphanies,
if they wore cherry lipstick
or gave wrong directions.

 2002 by Greg McNellie. All rights reserved.
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