Donostia, 2014
This is the Basque:
all waving emerald hillside,
dotted with white horses and tanned cattle grazing,
terraced by stone farmhouses with white wooden windowpanes which
frame the proud armies of pine standing at attention for voluptuous, fertile valleys and
the rugged, steely grey of granite.
Highways tunnel through
from green on to blue,
passed shaggy sheep
and shallow riverbeds laced with marigolds.
In the distance, the mountains are dressed in a suggestive mist.
The locals speak in a unique tongue.
The beaches beckon.
Delicious pintxos line the countertops of tabernas.
As I walk along the river, I pass a girl with her pet rabbit on a leash.
So this is the Basque.
all waving emerald hillside,
dotted with white horses and tanned cattle grazing,
terraced by stone farmhouses with white wooden windowpanes which
frame the proud armies of pine standing at attention for voluptuous, fertile valleys and
the rugged, steely grey of granite.
Highways tunnel through
from green on to blue,
passed shaggy sheep
and shallow riverbeds laced with marigolds.
In the distance, the mountains are dressed in a suggestive mist.
The locals speak in a unique tongue.
The beaches beckon.
Delicious pintxos line the countertops of tabernas.
As I walk along the river, I pass a girl with her pet rabbit on a leash.
So this is the Basque.
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