The Desert Tree's Roots

A house, a home, a place to stay,

Boss or Duna barking, silence at bay.

Names etched on sand like the Nazca lines,

The desert of happiness, filled with vines

And roots of a tree that grow beneath,

No warriors, no guns, none to sheath.

Water flows below, feeding the seed,

From one to the other

We bleed and we breed

Just moments, two kisses on each cheek,

There forms an ocean, a lake, a river or creek,

From there the Spanish sardines get their fill,

The trunk and the branches of the tree never be still.

Moving ever so slightly, particles with the breeze,

Both fleeting and everlasting moments we seize,

An Andalusian bull comes to drink at last,

The Matador with no sword, stands steadfast.

“Is this the oasis the Calle’s and Moreno’s reside?”

The Andalusian bull nods, in that desert so vast

“You won’t find them here matador, high or low tide,

They live nowhere for long but always far and wide

Across the plains, desert, mountains, and cold

Seek them if you must, but you may as well fold”

Humorous riddle, thought the matador,

But humour is as dancing is, easy to find near the shore

Of the water in abundance; instances from before

That sweeten the memories, a home they adore.

A tapa with a smile, seekers stay for more,

At the behest of the six, four young and two old,

Singing with laughter, not chained by gold

You hear a sheep pastor calling his Iberian folk,

Enter the rest, laden with a joke,

Or Two.

“So, they are nowhere to be found in this empty land?” said He

towards the bull, the Cerberus of that gargantuan family tree.

There the Andalusian beast nodded yet again,

“From place to place they might go, not bound by grain

Or sky blue, true to their connection

Be it Sun, Rain, or the odd Snowflake, stick with the inception

Of tradition, of family, of Andalusian culture,

Undoubtedly a jovial bundle del sur,

From six to eight, to more and more,

A faint Scent of religious and spiritual myrrh

A single location for all, impossible my sword-less señor”

Tired, thirsty, and taken aback;

The Spanish matador, pensive, absorbed the fact

That one of the six, eight or nine,

By the Alboran Bay could be found all in good time,

“Bull, you speak well, but allow me a sign

Of which I may find these compatriots of mine,”

The bull began, recounting the steps complex,

So that the matador, gallant as he was, may pay his respects.

“Follow a motherly smile, a fatherly brush, a laugh in its wake,

A loving brother who riles, the smell of youthful beautiful sisterly bake,

Silence at bay, bearing gifts on birthdays, the perfect soul mates,

The scent, taste of toast with tomato, ham, and/or tuna

The crackling sound of a cold beer opening could work as bait.

Nocturnal flying bats, do try and follow la Luna or Duna's

Moonlit cackles in the wind, be sure to look for noise,

Their tall figures, man or woman, all poised, heavy in weight,

While they happily wait for the next plate,

The Calle’s and Moreno’s, similar traits they keep,

Many visit, entering their presence with a faithful leap.

A beach, a slope, a countryside castle,

For them to be at home, slender and gracile,

May be in Seoul, Timbuktu or Brazil.”

The water’s stream effortlessly feeding the roots,

Of the tree so graciously packed with the Spanish olive fruit.

The matador received the answer he searched,

But little did he know the tall tree and its inhabitants, were there perched.

He said his thanks and bode farewell to the guarding bull,

Walked the desert so vast, eyes covered with life’s wool,

As he strode along the plains, seeking the Malaga sun,

The calm beast looked upwards, knowing he was saved from his own bull run.

What the Matador had not understood, or had failed to notice,

Home, convoluted as it may be, is ultimately where the family tree is.

No site, smell, scent, savour could hold them still in one place,

All but that one tree, rooted, growing, alive, in that vast deserted space.