There Is A Rose In Her Hair

She fumbles round Barcelona.
Muttering names in the air.
Her aged hands hold a basket.
There is a rose in her hair.
Her vivid mind full of pictures
of scarlet youth set aflame
as clad in black now she searches
around the old streets of Spain.

Deep in her eyes is her father,
the theatre now only dust.
She sees his student the first time
and his dark eyes full of lust.
She is sixteen, near the curtain,
the picture froze in a frame.
With him she distributes leaflets
around the old streets of Spain.

Later they both dance the tango.
It's an exciting affair.
There is no rose in her teeth though,
there is a rose in her hair.


The ragged woman is resting
beside a sandy bark tree.
The birds are flocking to breadcrumbs
there is a bang and they flee,
and like a shot she is back there.
It blinks, the raven's dark eye.
She's looking frantic for father
but father does not reply.

She sees the kitchen in yellow
the chickens under the stair,
and nervous waiting to meet him
she puts a rose in her hair.
He gives her kisses for comfort,
to prove that his side will win
and all these many years later
she is still waiting for him.

She never dances the tango,
none of the passion is there.
There is no youth but there is hope.
There is a rose in her hair.