Editor's note.
Most of what you find here in this blog is mine, unless otherwise stated. Today i'm spring cleaning, probably because it's winter but the catkins are out, and i found this on my desktop. Apparently it's something i wrote, but i have no memory of doing so. I've put it into Google to see if it had any hits, but i found none. The only suggestion that it might be mine, other than that it is on my desktop, is the word 'Cahoota' which seems to be made up from a half memory. So unless you hear otherwise i claim copyright.
On the beach the young men are learning to smoke the Cahootas of their fathers and grandfathers, soft music plays from the terraces of the cafés. At one, at dark, thick set man, half hidden beneath a greasy sombrero performs magic tricks for the customers. Along the wall of the harbour the old women are sitting watching no one and everyone; some knit as they gossip.
But where are the young women?
No one knows, except their lucky companions.
There is no one inside, the evening is too exciting as everyone else strolls the street that curves slowly around the bay.
In the morning only the fishermen will be awake.
And José whose job is to wash the cobbled streets until they gleam.
Now he is sleeping.
On the deck of the boat most distant from this sweet night.
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