Photo by Alex Quezada on Unsplash

Hang on

Sunday — No face no reply

I scrape the sickly saliva from my chin and watch the morning’s breakfast drip down into the undergrowth. A handful of skaters and cyclists and strollers trickle through the shaded corridor of Retiro’s hulking oaks, only the merest slivers of light from the persistent sun filtering through.

Enjoy this, I tell myself — the tranquillity. Madrid in August.



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Brendan Boyle

Irish - living in Galicia. Write about Spain, its cities and culture; real people and places; current affairs. Supporter of real journalism.