Sand-scuffed to their metal tips, my boots
are scarred and scoured into eroded rock;
pale, reddish and smooth, save small black
patches of original patina; hot and heavy
in my hands as I pack for home.
 
Soon I will breathe the dustless air, oil-scented
by wild mint, rosemary and thyme. In the
valley of lime every stone speaks and the roots
of oleanders stop the river’s song for
newly-arrived nightingales to perform.
 
There only the cork oaks are wounded
and every decade they heal.