Where I live there is no real summer it is period
with too much heat till it gets cold and damp
which last seven months and is called winter.
This land with a hot sun and icicle shadows
casting a spell of misery on us and it is the time
of the year when the old people die in mass.
Tourists come here in bus, train and planes, not for the culture that has been watered down
like bacalao rinsed to many time before cooking
loses its flavour, and Fado reduced to irrelevance

They – tourists- sit in the sun on the beach getting
a tan, yet there are a few days in May when there
is a summer with green leaves and grass, and death
is something old people can joke about.

Driving home
Driving back to Algarve we took the long road
more cafés and restaurants by the roadside and not
so many crazy drivers.
The restaurants were full of Portuguese people on vacation
they like their lunch in this country
Grilled chicken
Grilled meat
Grille the unspeakable innards
Stewed meat
Bacalao with cream
Red wine
Fresh fish
Beans in its many variations
Water, cold from the well
The worst of the summer heat had gone good mood prevailed.
People talk in this country
at the same time.
The din of happy, eating people was symphony of summer time
a few weeks of freedom, the paying of bills could come later
I love this country called Portugal even when I’m in a hurry and
the women in front of me and the check-out person talk about
grandchildren.

What will be will be

It was raining all day he sat morosely
on the balcony, today he sits on the terrace
and is still pessimistic despite sunny weather.
He wants to go back to his cottage in Algarve
to soak up the atmosphere of what once was
say hello to the trees, birds and bees and
things that annoyed him like dog crap outside
his front door and the holes in the road
lugging firewood, sleep under three duvet and
on top of two mattresses, he is not a princess
hear dogs barking in the night and feel safe.
Last time he was home had forgotten the keys
had to break a window inside the yard to get in,
despite this, he had slept well to the choir
of howling dogs, with a belly full of wine and bacalao.

Sunday Forenoon

She is listening to the Catholic mass
On TV and I’m banned from the living room
She takes her religion serious
And will be spared of any sarcastic remarks
About how the Padres are dressed and me
Wondering aloud if they believe what
They say.
We are going out for lunch, the sermon has
Made her hungry and we will have chicken
Killed in Jesus’s name, fried to perfection.
Me! I prefer Portuguese bacalao burgers
Fried to perfection, with a salad and later
drive along the promenade people watching.