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JoanMargarit
The big parterre
My childhood died in Turó Park.
I can still see those summer mornings,
the brilliant greens and the happiness
with which we ran about, how we’d stop
at the little jets of those fountains
that I feel wetting my lips again.
The dazzle of light began in the lake
with the waterlilies’ sumptuous whiteness
and the ight of dragon ies like angels
that would stop in one spot in mid-air.
And the light spread out, with the sparkling
of the water sprinklers, over the grass
of the big parterre: an open, forbidden space,
nothing but quiet grass, protected
by the border of white-painted stakes.
To my eyes, the calm of a huge garden.