The hillside brims with chalk white houses;
Deep red shutters contain cow's blood.
Basque rouge, say the neighboring French.
Dark woolen berets on weathered, long nosed faces,
Talk of whaling and cod and pil-pil.
Ancient language, ancient people
Gather around the old oak, its leaves now turning.
This land without a place on any map,
Waits in green gold patience.
It's autumn in Basqueland.
Liilia Talts Morrison
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/basqueland/
