A Spanish calligrapher visits Pearson Park

The second hand glories of those rooms look out on a circular path about the park,
Dust motes, high ceilings, moulted carpet and cornice,
A mirrored dresser not made anymore,
All rented of course,

Casts of horsehair and brick in those walls soak in the pathways to this park,
Cliff top clay prints the sole of his shoe,
A stack of rock slouches to the East,
Soft land around reduced

A bay lined with shale which breaks, pencil nice, to write on the sandstone,
An elephant trampled leather coat hides a stone
Stolen from long Spanish rail tracks,
In that pocket alone

Thumbed years smooth, then a conker picked, fresh sleek oiled, dried then wrinkled,
Both now palmed in the crenel of his hand,
The coat wears the unshaped shoulders
Of nearby hills, a castle on the Aln

Other castillos speak, Lorre where thin sliced alabaster left striations in the light,
Monte Aragon, weathered down angles at rest,
Close to perfectly abandoned villages,
Where inhabitants untied their hopes and left

Their doors unlocked, mountain walkers now scuffle through papers in the desks,
Yellowed from being alone, the fine script
Looks as if history was expected,
Written in strict ink

The pressure, curve, and shape give devotion beyond words, watched then taken,
Exquisite discipline calling, the calligrapher's
Pages flock about the room,
The Callers unwary of the look to their figures

Cast in the ordinary they seldom destroy, the calligrapher watches from the walls,
Pages feather settle on the wood he walked,
When the callers took nothing,
His hand became stark

A forge to the future of sleeping walls, his memory licks from the mortar,
Into the Victorian room, slips between all my pages,
And loads them with light
From other places.