In the barrio of San Miguel I can hear men shouting 'voy!' in their pisos
I chuckle because I know it is them saying to their spouses, 'Yeah, I'm going to the shop, I'm going!'
There is a very old lady that throws tissues into our patio from her window
She shouts, ‘guapo!’ at my husband when he's hanging out the clothes.
And the old ladies' daughter pops out after to tell us that her mum isn't quite well.
But I think the pañuelos on the patio are an outdated symbol of something -
Very AndalucÃan, speaking to each other in symbols.
Her daughter has a beautiful name and is kind, diligent
Ever so patient as I hear her jabbering away to her mother,
She doesn't often leave the house.
They don't have an outdoor space
Only the window that looks onto our patio
It has green painted ornate bars over it
To dignify the separation, between our two living spaces.
On their window sill are three pots of humble plants that don't grow too much
And sometimes she sticks her head out to comment on the weather or the person hammering at the wall on the other side of our patio throughout the day
She passes us buñuelos and winks.
Her voice is as deep and rich as she is patient and gentle
I imagine if she used it as a weapon she would roar the whole casa de vecinos down
One stacked on top of the other
Like a house of cards would go crumbling down -
As I fear it will through a storm as water gushes in through cracks
But it never does.
And her voice is always calm and colourful
Amongst the hammers and calls of 'voy' across the rooftops,
It blossoms slowly like the single flower in the pot on her window sill.
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