Saturday morning
Preciosa hangs her baby on the wind, the father, look:
smoke is rising from the mezquita, the nuns
walk by the children’s cemetery, bless the little coffins, look:
Archangels are breathing autumn over the balcony, treacle
stars tumble from the tumbler of gin to the tablecloth
that is the night’s mirror: day, pushing through air like the sixty nine
tattoed to her side, beauty scatters over sweet summers
flagged by maple and the green man under the olive grove
that the wolves kiss, after biting the parchment moon to pieces, look:
Preciosa’s smile lifts the sunrise over Spain
Charlie Baylis lives and works in Nottingham. He reviews poetry for Stride. His own creative writing has most recently appeared in Stride, Agave and Litro, he has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize (UK) and nominated for a Pushcart Prizes (US)