TO AN OLD POET

You walk the Castilian countryside
and see nothing. An intricate
verse from John’s Gospel
fills your mind
so you hardly mark the yellow

sunset. The hazy light raves
and at the limits of the East
the scornful, scarlet moon appears,
mirror of rage.

You raise your eyes and see it. Memory
of a thing once yours starts
then fades. Your pale head

drops and sadly walking on,
you forget that verse you wrote:
Its epitaph the bloodstained moon.