Things You See at the Setas in Seville
From here, nothing is as it seems. You navigate
honeycombed walkways of Finnish pine
masquerading as metal; sixteen million
nuts and bolts join three thousand plus hexagons
coalescing to a parasol or mushroom
that squats, looms, soars, offers shelter or viewing
spot, according to perspective. You lean over
a three sixty balustrade where all compass points
command a kaleidoscope of rooftops, flat and pitched;
Christian spires, Arab towers and cupolas, brooding
apartment blocks, their facades pockmarked with air con
and satellite dishes; the Calatrava bridge
over the river: a mosaic of fragments
shed from the eighth century to the twenty-first
yet from up here it makes some kind of sense, sort of.
And so you wonder if there’s a glimmer of hope
that with a bit of distance and a dash of luck,
if you can manage to live a little longer,
go a little higher and consider from there
all the crazy years behind you, maybe one day
everything else will, too.
