You say the lavender has grown in the night,
As the moon imprinted itself,
And the purple flower spikes,
Sway next to the olive tree,
You say the year is turning,
But these are hoopoe days,
Flouncing in a lavender haze
Soft, blurred and lazy,
We stroll to the house under construction,
It has changed since last Friday,
Fresh stucco applied to breeze block,
Dragos wait to be replanted,
Wooden beams exposed to sunshine,
While tarpaulin flails uselessly,
Amongst the rubble and machinery,
We sit opposite on our favourite bench,
Under these rolling clouds,
Faraway a podenco is barking,
The bodega gate swings and creaks,
While doves scratch and search,
We stop to peek at the cat house,
As the afternoon slows in time,
Fractal lavender begins to turn,
As we slowly head for home.
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