A Reluctant Love Poem
( pronounced moosh veruu) : an un-truth in Maltese
I do not
Your dusty roads....
Your stretching fig tree arms over ancient rubble walls....
Your wild purple poppies and artichoke fields
Your open windowed gallerias
Your one eyed observing stray cats
Your chariot like carts, held by weathered old hands, along the quiet back roads.
Your silent city on the hill, still wrapped in golden grandeur
Your old women on door stoops, catching the evening breezes
Your bright colored luzzi gently rocking in the Marsaskala bay
Your Imqaret, still hot in the hand smelling of dates and cloves
Your gbejna, peppered and fresh from the goat farm
Your Hobz biz Zejt, to eat by the sea