Al Misti - Peru
Like a full-term matron, over-due
potent goddess primed to burst out any moment
with her unholy child
spewed forth in a deluge of ash and fire
she waits, volatile and ominous
her snowy crown, flamenco and gold in the setting sun.
Shanty towns hug her dangerous petticoats
what hope of safety there?
Yet, there is no place to run for anyone, I suppose.
This is the hot-spot
where life breeds in the fertile plain
over-looked by those implacable mountain gods.
We hang out our washing
and watch the full moon
serenely float out over the wall
where the borgainvillea swing
and house-dogs prowl on the flat roof-tops.
We are told to run for the arches
if the tremors strike again.
Always take refuge under arches, any arches.
That is why the Cistercian nuns had their beds
in alcoves, under arches.
There is no legacy of running away, it seems.
So we peacefully sleep, though the ground shakes
and we can hear the rumble of collapsing masonry nearby.
Police casually erect tape barriers in the morning
and life goes on.
The people still gather in the Plaza
where one of the Cathedral’s twin towers is fallen
so it looks like a lop-sided, illuminated cyclops
in the star-pricked dusk.
They come to gossip, barter, sell and buy
amid multitudes of busy pavement cafes.
I munch sweet-corn, sweetly grilled
with goats cheese and butter
wrapped up in it’s leaf - a 2 Sol feast.
Only the Inca walls
withstand the ring of Fire’s depredations
at 7 on the Richter scale
and the pounding of the Earth’s plates
when Al Misti awakes.
July 2001