It may not be the fanciest of walks
With its bricks being worn by the weather,
Leaving behind potholes and broken chalk
Which visitors will never let gather.
Vendors will be willing to show menus
Of their food that’s the same as those before.
Through their big speakers blaring out the blues
Makes me feel like I know what is in store;
It invokes in me, a place far away.
In the sea air, the spoken word of Spain
Is the communication that’s in play,
And causes my normal banter refrain.
Still, it is nice to be here with my drink;
I wish to make the final spoken link.
John Collings 