Carne empanada, veal in breadcrumbs

bread crusts discarded

saved for the beggar

ragged figure at the gate

of our villa in Spain

Rusty tin can held by swollen fingers

red-black sores and dirt fusing

puffy features, matted hair

eyes without life

I, ten years old

run to the scraggy caller

Buttercup shorts, white cotton blouse

dazzling

I hand over day-old crusts

in a paper bag

pour leftover rabbit stew

into his tin can

Gracias, he mumbles, gracias nina

I watch his sorrowful bulk

shuffle along the dirt track

layer upon layer of old clothes

his armour against a raging sun.

How did it begin?

Ana Greeno

Jan 08