Chiclana De La Frontera

Cool throngs of stars formed one vast arm to sweep the coal-black clockface of the sky. To watch it was to reel beneath the slow, imperious creep of the never-ending circle. One could reach out, it seemed, and almost touch the tart cicada song which throbbed in soft insistent insect waves with formlessness of drizzle, mass of stone. But more than these, the patient ancients blazed blackness from their gnarled necrotic trunks, more ominously sensed than seen, and bled into the dark those summer suns they'd drunk, as tired as immortality, as dense as death. We hope on heartbeats, count on slivers of light, but hear within our blood the rhythm of night.