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The projector of Sierra Gorda

Invisible from anywhere below,
a perfect circle like a fairy ring,
hidden from view alongside rocky crags

No roads to it, a tiny path leads up
towards what’s visible, a ruined house.
The wall is higher still, but hidden well

I’ve climbed to it from the ravine below,
where saw palmetto sprouts from blackened soil.
An arsonist destroyed this stretch of woods.

The concrete floor is cracked and full of weeds.
I sat and ate some nuts, resting my feet
within the circle of the old barbette.
The view from there’s remarkable:
the port, or distant villages inland,
refineries below, mountains above.



The tunnel of El Carmoli

A haunted passage from the Civil War
lies amongst other military remains.
The entrance light fades as I round a curve.
Just at this spot I find a geocache
and leave it for another visitor.
There’s something too contrived about this pot
with someone’s “treasures” left beneath the earth.
Treasure’d be welcome, but it’s not my goal.
I seek experiences of a natural kind.
My tiny torches light the way inside.
Passages run off to the left and right.
I hear some footsteps, rustles . . . shine a light . . .
Nothing and no-one in this gloomy space.
Nothing and no-one in the passages.
My rational part tells me it’s from the town.
No-one’s above climbing volcanic paths.
This place is empty, not a bat around.
My other side would like to cut and run
but I move slowly, mustn’t stumble there.
More haste less speed. I make my way outside.
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