(for Brian)
we must have passed ten crosses 
on the road out of Santa Pola,
their ornate carvings naming the dead–
those who have fallen 
to the narrow winding lanes,
I am surprised at how quickly
my mind turns to death
how swiftly it shifts, 
a sort of pendulum I suppose,
at the end of which is my head
swinging between cloudless skies 
the sand between my toes
and back once more to death,
how did they pass I wondered
as a sixteen wheeler roared by,
and once more I’m back to the fields, 
the fincas, the shushing palms, 
and the oncoming traffic
as we continue back to Torrevieja.