Gibraltar

This rock abstained from wearing millennial blood:
The weathered face that sits continent-flanked, staring at the sea,
Gray and green amidst the green and blue;
Teller of tall tales from Morocco, Greece, and Italy.
Beyond his guard lies a pool sweet of falling grapes and bathing daughters;
Bitter of sinking olives, spears, and lovers.
Gold-burdened camels slowly walk the Southern frontier
While empires quickly burn on the Northern coasts.
Cliff-hung hamlets give birth to kings
As wine flows into heady armies, equally red.
Siren songs and strummed harps lift salty air to lilac clouds,
And pirates returning to port pass Spanish castles dressed in blue.
But first they greet the doorman; he who sits in front of the Western heart.
His name rolls off the tongue: Gibraltar.