First Visit to Segovia

The first street's colourful arcade of shops
has an unexpected heart of stone:
a church, modest and worn but strong; the sun
and unkind ages greyed and dulled its sight,       
left mystery and warmth in softened shape.

We glance up, and are caught as though by eyes
watching us - blue arches high above
the lofty buildings, make us hasten on,                 
to seek the town's rich feature, quidity -  
a granite, Roman-profiled acqueduct.

So solid and clear-cut it makes of sky
a surface: lucent lapiz lazuli.
So unmoving, eternal it would seem;
yet every grey block, dimpled on each cheek,
recalls the tale, scarred by hooks and rods,                                                       
of ropes and regiments crimson and bronze,                               
harsh orders, heaving limbs and human lines
which hauled it into life and hailed it there.                                
Yes, those soft dents in all-enduring stone
cup whispers of the ancient ways, left dry
by turning tides of time.
                                     
                                We turn and climb
up steps on steps of cobbling, to stand
on par with beryl mountains which here rim
the world's arena, in snow's ermine trim.
Look distantly down on the leaps and bounds -
the aqueduct's long-legged galloping
through cheering crowds of bright-roofed terraces. 
And sheltered by strong ramparts, still our breath
is snatched away, thrilled by brazen breeze  
until elation's uncomfortableness         
prompts retreat towards the alcazar.

Through lanes' surprising silence, where bright day
makes smile a wise 'no-comment' on new life;
past sleepy taverns waiting for the night
to rouse their voices, wink their darkened eyes. 

And out into the charming, chattering place:
the bannered, tremble-treed and sun-filled square,
where theatre's eloquent, tired painted face
and crooked attic windows' weathered grin
people-watch; the town-hall smartly dressed
stands quietly by, officialdom forgot.
Where delicate, the bandstand still receives
romping children, lifts them graciously
to view the grown-up's world at their own height.
And in a magic-circle; adults sit
to taste a cup, colloquy's sacrament
at miniature round tables, for each few.                                    
Tourists wander, vague, between the two,
with proper wonder, but a relaxed face
and bask in warmth beside the plunging in
point of the great Cathedral's cool dark doors.     

There she towers, spreading her flounced skirts -                  
a maid on Sunday, lacily arrayed,
meditative in the gadding throng.
Between her frills peep slyly monstrous heads:
pet demons grinning at the passer-by;
but in her heart are treasures: images
of love divine, glowing with the gem-
bright fervour which has drawn and cherished them.    

The castle yet commands, and so we broach
a narrow alley, under a stone bridge       
connecting wall to confidential wall.          
We'd down the steep slope quick, but lingering
to drink an air of antique atmosphere,
to gaze a moment on the gaudy wares,
tradition hung on low-browed merchant fronts.      
The birds piccolo in one shady nook
where creepers, like a mantilla stream down
the side of an old house, withdrawn a pace
from gorgeous bustle of the narrow street;
and cooly seeps the starry jasmine's scent                           
through wafts of wine and garlic and warm bread.

Stroll on - and suddenly, fall into space
where houses hold back at the palace gates.
Beyond low walls gapes all around, about
the wide sierra, spreading far below -
and foothills' rocky outcrops mounting up
to a distant coronet of peaks. 
But here the grand gate, iron with gilt tips
twists ornately under a stone arch;
leads through gardens, shade-solaced by trees
- to the alcazar - the city's prow.

Breasting green and tossing waves below
of leafy tops, trunks clinging to the cliffs,
a fairy-tale serenity of spires         
guarded by a one crenelated tower.
Above, sable choughs, mites of heraldry,                            
gules claws curled beneath, sharp beaks outstretched,
splaying flexile feathers on the breeze                       
patrol the castle on its sweeping crag                   
watchful over verdant wooded gorge, 
straw-spun and bush-studded plain below.                                                  

By earth, not sun's glow, we retrace our steps:
and then, arch over arch, the supple stone
rises gold upon royalized blue:
The Aqueduct! glorying in its name,                            
a monumental vine; the sky released, 
now flowing softly in its deepest mood
about the branching piers, a nocturn sea.

We drive, and look back on an isle of lights                   
which pinnacles amid a wash of dark.
Crowning the quiet 'City of Victory'                                                    
turret, steeple, only point aloft,
and over us falls silver-dusted night
hanging from Segovian spires.