the lost battalion

On a mountainside in southern Spain
tall trees in full greenage
climbed silently in single file,

marching with military sturdiness
like a long forgotten battalion
of republican soldiers-

-still ceaselessly advancing
towards General Franco.

Branches swaying
in the Moorish wind
appeared as slung rifles

and onwards they marched,
endlessly towards a distant
forgotten battle-

-while the bitter scent of
oranges rose from the west,
flanking the battalion
triumphantly.