Grandad's Secret Lemon Tree

Skirting church on Puig de Missa, then down the slope towards the river, St Eularia's Rui, with path that winds on to the sea. Past the smelly goats, where poking little fingers get nibbled, and goat-dribbled through the fence. Billy stands high on outcast fridge and watches babies butt their silly billy heads. Then past the scraggy peacock, beneath the orange tree, with oranges bunched and bright-framed in darkest green among their leaves. Then walk beside the cleft and craggy wall, where lizards still unseen await more warming sun. Past the preening cockerel and his shining feather suit, strutting proud between each grounded peck, while hammock lies still, stretched between winter's barren trees, waiting for that day with warmer breeze, for May or June to come. Then water's edge where winter's rain still trickles over fall, and replenished pool below is home to ducks, where ducks and cats are fed, regardless of what town notice said. Then past overhanging pomegranates, three branched all in a row, the top one pecked by tiny bird, and beneath those rosy balls, a ball of baby mullet, soft sucking and disturbing water's idle glassy flow. Then lazy walk beyond the bridge where river's wider mouth has more silty sandy edge, where out towards horizon a mackerel sky meets night-stilled sea, and sun's soft and bright reflected rise holds promise of a perfect day. But in between, a secret quest, where grandad wanders from the path all through the damp and dewy grass, bright spotted with Spring's yellow flowers. And so the lemon tree is reached, and five fat lemons quickly picked, avoiding branches nasty pricks. And grandad tucks them safe away. For this is grandad's secret lemon tree, with plenty left, and so for sure we'll come again. We'll come again at least once more. We'll come again another day.