It stands four-square, or did,
in sniffing distance of
the sulphurous spa that drew
a Roman colony here. The house
speaks for itself, rough-hewn
from local rock, and stands --
or did -- the very picture of itself,
unoccupied except for harmless fauna.
But someone absent cultivated
a smallish plot down there
by the stream. Peppers, a shrub
of pomegranate, garlic and
an old, gnarled olive tree.
This would be, if I dreamt,
a dream-home para mi
y de chica ayer. So I once thought.
Last month, after a freak storm,
the stream swelled to a flood,
carrying all but the half-drowned
olive down the valley. Worse,
the shale behind the house
broke through the wall and filled
each room with debris, broken pots
and dirt la-la. Oh dream, vain dream,
now you lie shattered, though
a pictured finca hangs still in the air.