Rambla Nova, Tarragona

Here, where the blue air of a long September evening
is a warm soup of wandering
among the hordes who huddle to gorge on tourist memories
of distant ships with orange lights,
like strips of street torn free from land,
my daughter holds my hand,
newly at ease with crowds,
and me at ease with this foreign town.

Through the dark, we hear the waves
below the cliff on which we stand,
and she tells me we’ll be there tomorrow,
flailing in the shallows,
churning up sand.

Trevor Conway