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THE ORANGE TREES OF
SEVILLE
I step from a taxi
to a scent that hints
tropical heat, to the glass shine
of doors opening to other lives.
And it's real - the perfume piercing
the air is everywhere, its source
the blossom in small white marriages
on trees nested with globes, each
so orange it carries the red tinge
of a huge moon slung low in the sky.
The trees stand in
pairs sweetening
avenue, square, passageway.
And at the centre of old courtyards,
whose Moorish arches lead to rooms
silken with darkness, I come upon them
standing in epiphanies of light
as if they never shed rubbery leaves,
ecstatic blossom, as if their oranges
are the perpetual I'm continually trying
to cup in my hands without questioning
whether always is a prize I want.
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