Disappearing tail lights

it has taken a long time to bring me

to this grey December morning with

its indifferent wind and little warmth

to walk the lines in a more feeble light

up to the craters of the smaller volcanos

that sit just behind San Bartolomé

where opposite foot trails sweep down

to follow the grain of the slanting hill

and under the grey thorny gorse

the ground has cracked alarmingly

and sand drifts over our faded steps

a cluster of umbrella grass pierces the earth

and I am carried back to Southover Street

a night with a thin city breeze

cool in that boot-fair opulent bedroom

painted deep red with gold satin curtains

we're sharing expensive ice-cream 

from the takeaway pizza shop next door

an open bottle of cheap red 'La Mancha'

I’m sitting on the bay-window seat, watching

where you'd painted a Chagall scene on the glass

next to the giant money tree succulent and

I focus on the taxis heading down the road

- their tail-lights disappearing into the night