He plays on the corner of a shaded avenue – 

the accordionist of Santiago de Compostella. 

Under the sign pointing the way 

to James the Apostle in his tomb

he is there in the morning and there again 

when the Galician twilight closes in around him.  

There are coins in his cup, not many but enough 

to buy Rosario’s poems. The pilgrims keep coming –  

crossing borders, mountain rivers, 

catching their breaths, shaking dust from their boots,

some to pray and be forgiven, some just to look 

at the architecture or listen to the accordionist

who sits in the shadow of the great cathedral,

keeps his quiet tunes for late in the evening.