down in the village August comes bundled
with the Radio Zeta sing-along
melodies shaped amid vaguely heretical fumes
of herbally enhanced salamelle alla piastra
the sausages replete wafting fills the air
with swirling pork-mementos
searing top-end sizzle
static for an instant filtered out
by the two-prong mutra
the tune itself is stripped of frequencies on its way uphill
arriving as a glib muffle of sentiment and croon
and just as this starts to feel real
the breeze gathers down the valley
fans it all elsewhere leaving trills creaks blips
each more distant or closer than the next
nightscape's depth of field restored
severed only by the spooky pulse of landing lights
and yet the stars seem set flat against the sky
Venus is both yours and mine
another day has gone
at any given time we raise our separate glasses triangulate and grin
August 2009 Valverde