Winding our way through terraced wine groves and cork-trees,
a fleeting glimpse of this other form of life
from behind protective glass of course.
Gazing down on the rows of yellow flecked scrub
and to our right, white capped hills:
each windmill like a toy set down by giant children
as they knelt to pick the wild flowers,
the meadows’ sparkling teeth.


One comment

  1. krkbaker · April 28, 2007

    I like the “w’s”. Don’t forget about your tag, Mr. Mr. You’re not off the hook. 🙂

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