Mediterranean at El Palo, Malaga
Poem by Harvey Gillman
A warm evening. The low voice of waves against the sand.
Inevitable. A bridge. Here you can cross. Here there are no walls.
No custom posts. No defining flag. No halls for inspecting
the luggage of one’s life. No pack smuggled over. No flight.
No call to declare. No name is needed, no tribe.
We stroll along the coast. Stop to listen to the plash
of sea on land. A guitar played by an unknown player.
A prayer ascends from the darkening beach
to a lantern illuminating the falling night.
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