"WHERE ROSEMARY BLOOMS"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 6th May 2011.

Heaven bloomed
the loveliest blue
Mallorca rocks of ochre
orange
grey
while cumulus
white
striped skies in hues so similar
filled the view.

Steep cliff of stone
you drop
as if to hell
a well so deep
we see
we don't
as mists rise up volcanic damp
theatrical and strange.

Across on a hill below
there stands a hermitage
ruined
it comes and goes
as mists clear round about
small islands float
way out to sea
a tiny boat.

A scene so romantic
beside the ocean
high on a mountain top
the air is pure
the buzzards cry
the bees awake to visit flowers
the world is ours.

At 927 m. we gazed out from the ridge path, on our five hour walk, looking at the world as if we were planted like the rosemary bushes with their close-leaved hardy flowers, which had just begun to bloom in among the strewn rocks and boulders, a most intense pale blue, there at our feet, and clinging in cracks to the sheer walls of the drop down to the tops of the ilex, home oaks, and olive trees, that seemed to sway tantalisingly green and dark; occasionally our stomachs and knees gave way in our imagination as we gasped at the fall of 7-800 m. The Mediterranean sea so blue, the clouds making formation rows, sending some to visit the hills, a grey, white intangible mass of vapours. We felt as I say a part of this world, like the rocks.