Urubamba, Peru

Crass American voices
Drawling louder and fading away
On a backdrop of cushioned mountains,
Softening and deepening
With the growth of evening shadow.

A gentle, empty silence
Spreads across this abstract green square
Of a park

Motos interrupt the dream
And out of them spill the drivers
In floods
Filling the emptiness with a quiet game of football
Which rises with passion.

The aggressive ripping of grass,
A semi-human, bleating voice
And a clan of sheep pass by me.

The leaders of this group follow,
Two little boys playing with a wound-up ball
Of string.
They fill my space,
Sit on the arm of my bench,
Alert with curiosity.

The paint on this bench is thin
And covers the wood like yellow mould;
And here I am:
Gringa
Stranger
A trespasser in a foreign land,
Laying myself open
But not quite enough to escape
Who I am

And slowly a picnic arrives;
A gathering of warm, familiar faces,
Similar faces,
And the bench and I
Fade further into this distant world
Which exists in the heart of theirs.

Yet the interest of this boy,
Stretching himself out in the grass at my feet,
Fits us back together
And we talk, falling in and out of conversation,
Like a soothing summer breeze.

Reviews

[Maxwell]

I'm actually very impressed with this. Imagery is excellent (I feel like I'm there, surrounded by crowds of people). Favorite lines: "And the bench and I/Fade further into this distant world/Which exists in the heart of theirs." The conjunction of the hustle and bustle of the crowd with the peaceful innocence of childhood makes for a great effect, and one that touches of life in many different ways.

To be honest, I have no criticisms. If you need them, I'm sure I could nitpick with the right amount of time, but the effect is perfect as I see it now. Excellent work.