always there are the waves,

at Isla Negra

unless you understand the

motion of the rocks

as they stir

against the pounding surf

you will never understand

the motion of

loving a place

or a woman,

each moves

in their own way, undulating

like willows

high up

on cliffs as they extend

their branches downward,

enticing you

as do the waves

at the Isla Negra

so many colours,

so many rhythms,

so many songs

heard

and unheard

known only in the heart