GREEN AGAIN
I'm scraping the front door down
prior to undercoating and painting.
A plump gypsy boy comes down the alley,
says “Hola”, asks what I'm doing,
& am I a carpenter? I say,
“La puerta – pintar,” making
brush strokes in the air. He says,
“Ah, painting the door.” “Si.
Verde - Green. Otro vez - Again.”
He seems satisfied with that.
“You're painting the door green again.”
“Si.” He carries on. I go back to sanding,
trying to erase the claw-scrapes from Laura's dog
Filbert. When we first bought this house,
Laura's daughter's godfather Paco
lived here. Filbert, a big bright-eyed
hairy brown goat-dog, a wanderer, hated
fireworks – when they went off
in the village, he'd run to Paco's to hide.
Paco had a string hanging down
through one of the doorpanels, attached
to the lock, so Filbert could pull on the string
with his teeth & swing his weight against the door
until it opened. We knew nothing of this.
The Spanish love their fireworks,
spectacular whizzers & whooshers
& bangers that echo round the hills
to keep the demons away. But for Filbert
the devils were the bangers themselves.
We moved into the house one Saturday night,
& there was some kind of celebration
outside the bar, with fireworks of course,
but we'd gone to bed, exhausted from travel.
Then Filbert swung on the string,
thumping his body against the door,
but we'd locked it from inside,
& we didn't know what the hell this noise was
in the middle of the night. Eventually
I went down, & opened the door, & Filbert
came in, but he sensed something wasn't right.
Who were these strange people? Where
was Paco? He looked all around, but
made no sense of it. He didn't want to stay
& he didn't want to go, but eventually
the fireworks stopped & off he went.
That was ten years ago. Someone
poisoned Filbert, for hassling livestock
or because they didn't like Laura
or for some other reason. We're still here,
& we finally got round to repainting
the door. Green. Again.
I'm scraping the front door down
prior to undercoating and painting.
A plump gypsy boy comes down the alley,
says “Hola”, asks what I'm doing,
& am I a carpenter? I say,
“La puerta – pintar,” making
brush strokes in the air. He says,
“Ah, painting the door.” “Si.
Verde - Green. Otro vez - Again.”
He seems satisfied with that.
“You're painting the door green again.”
“Si.” He carries on. I go back to sanding,
trying to erase the claw-scrapes from Laura's dog
Filbert. When we first bought this house,
Laura's daughter's godfather Paco
lived here. Filbert, a big bright-eyed
hairy brown goat-dog, a wanderer, hated
fireworks – when they went off
in the village, he'd run to Paco's to hide.
Paco had a string hanging down
through one of the doorpanels, attached
to the lock, so Filbert could pull on the string
with his teeth & swing his weight against the door
until it opened. We knew nothing of this.
The Spanish love their fireworks,
spectacular whizzers & whooshers
& bangers that echo round the hills
to keep the demons away. But for Filbert
the devils were the bangers themselves.
We moved into the house one Saturday night,
& there was some kind of celebration
outside the bar, with fireworks of course,
but we'd gone to bed, exhausted from travel.
Then Filbert swung on the string,
thumping his body against the door,
but we'd locked it from inside,
& we didn't know what the hell this noise was
in the middle of the night. Eventually
I went down, & opened the door, & Filbert
came in, but he sensed something wasn't right.
Who were these strange people? Where
was Paco? He looked all around, but
made no sense of it. He didn't want to stay
& he didn't want to go, but eventually
the fireworks stopped & off he went.
That was ten years ago. Someone
poisoned Filbert, for hassling livestock
or because they didn't like Laura
or for some other reason. We're still here,
& we finally got round to repainting
the door. Green. Again.
