Basque Country

Here rainbows spill their sherbety surprise
in unexpected places, snubbing clichéd skies:

i. Arcs-en-Ciel

Where grey rain drifts the mountain's face
a shaft of colour surges from the ground
prism's searchlight plays on granite peaks;

as waves retreat, swell, rise and crash
a bow arcs back in spray, kingfisher quick,
here and gone, whiplash of spectrum light;

beneath the plane's wing, truant rainbow
caught on cloudshreds, paintbox butterfly
in spider's web, sparks and flashes.

ii Lourdes

We are voyeur-tourists, greedy for miracles:
sniffing round the edge of pain; smirking
as nun in boiled-sweet mac raises her mobile

to photograph the statue of the Virgin; pointing
at coach-loads filling gallon cans with holy water,
a thousand candles guttering for profit.

Until in mass-raised voices I smell prayer,
the tang of it sharp on the tongue, sweat of it
naked in the air, and shocked by recognition

(it tastes of love, and so of course it fells
you to your knees) I see, weaving amongst
the crowd, hope threads on rainbow feet.