Port Bou

As a child holds a pet,

Arms clutching but with hands that do not join,

And the coiled animal watches the

To outer freedom in animal air,

So the earth-and-rock flesh arms of this

Embrace but do not enclose the

Which, through a gap, vibrates to the open

Where ships and dolphins swim and above is the sun.

In the bright winter sunlight I sit on the stone

Of a bridge; my circling arms rest on a

Empty in my mind as the glittering

Because I search for an

And seeing an image I count out the coined

To remember the childish headlands of Port Bou.

A lorry halts beside me with creaking

And I look up at warm waving flag-like

Of militia men staring down at my French newspaper.'How do they write of our struggle, over the frontier?'I hold out the paper, but they refuse,

They did not ask for anything so

But only for friendly words and to offer me cigarettes.

In their smiling faces the war finds peace, the famished

Of the rusty carbines brush against their

Almost as fragilely as reeds;

And wrapped in a cloth - old mother in a shawl -The terrible machine-gun rests.

They shout, salute back as the truck jerks

Over the vigorous hill, beyond the headland.

An old man passes, his running mouth,

With three teeth like bullets, spits out 'pom-pom-pom'.

The children run after; and, more slowly, the women,

Clutching their clothes, follow over the hill,

Till the village is empty, for the firing practice,

And I am left alone on the bridge at the exact

Where the cleaving river trickles like saliva.

At the exact centre, solitary as a target,

Where nothing moves against a background of cardboard

Except the disgraceful skirring dogs; and the firing begins,

Across the harbour mouth from headland to headland.

White flecks of foam gashed by lead in the sea;

And the echo trails over its iron

Whipping the flanks of the surrounding hills.

My circling arms rest on the newspaper,

My mind seems paper where dust and ink fall,

I tell myself the shooting is only for practice,

And my body seems a cloth which the machine-gun

Like a sewing machine, neatly, with cotton from a reel,

And the solitary, irregular, thin 'paffs' from the

Draw on long needles white threads through my navel.

Written during the Spanish Civil War 1936-38'Port Bou': a small port on the border between France and Spain