Letter to Gare from the park in Tilarán

Letter to Gare from Tilarán's park

Winds race through here, scatter fronds and limbs too weak to hold on. Parrots chatter in pairs, shelter in pines. I ponder alone on this bench.

Winds cannot clear what they cannot enter. In my mind you are here, huddled in pine or racing with wind. Those windmills in the distance know your breath, this sunset your smile. It's passing now with your setting glow.

I press my back to the bench, wonder whether I too will be blown to where trees point. They lean, flap their boughs like flags. They do not answer my thoughts. Too focused on holding on, like me, they refuse to let go.

The Angelus summons the village to its pews. I rest on my bench. The sermon of the parrots spills forth as unintelligible as Latin. The wind speaks my name over and over, bidding me follow.

I dare not listen.

© Kåre Enga

6.enero 2013, Tilarán.