Teide, at three thousand metres,
a honeycomb of rock and air,
cold weightless pumice.
Lizards who’ve seen rocks rise
watch them fall as the sun grows.
The air locks in the chill.
Weakly we crouch on tuff,
thinned for the thinning air.

Teide, this lunar silence
turns us too to stone.
Each nugget refuses to yield
a crumb of sand.
No one nods at the sagacious
planting of a shadow.
The lizards do not come out
but multiply without moving.