The Pillars of Hercules


Curtains of drizzle,
Part in the iris blur of dawn light.
From the dome of Gibraltar (Jabal Tariq),
From Jews Gate,
I can glimpse the craggy mole of the Jebal Musa.

These guardians of the sea,
Like tonsils grown of granite,
Guide our passage
Between the petticoats of Europe
And the loin cloths of Zaire,
The gothic spires of Barcelona
And the filigree mosques
Prostrating through Morocco, Tangiers and Tunis.

As you cross the ten miles,
You must loose your senses
Release sensibilities
Setting free what bias one can,
This is the land of the Moors
The specters of the Ottoman Turks.

This antiquity is humbling,
Its colors vibrant
It sallow yellow dust, comforting.
The pigment in the walls, the railings,
The tiles, Persian blue and umber,
Turquoise on ancient lemon creme,
Eggshell on rust.
They soothe the heart,
Excite the inner eyes,
To accept the Saharan heat,
And the searing western dessert winds.

Between these worlds,
A gulf of blue,
A cold calm sea,
Roiling many fathoms of deep.
Meditative blues neath a high smirking sky
Phonecian secrets, Minoan whispers
All buried deep in its silt.
There is no mystery here, only history.
There is no solution more elusive,
Save that of peace.


Copyright 2006, 2007 Scott N. Loveall