It’s barely nine o’clock in the morn,
but already the beach side of the island is filling up,
people sit in groups
and I feel self-conscious of being alone,
this is the first summer without my Bambi.

Walk across the small island
to where fishing boats are pulled up onto shore
and men are mending nets
while women are hanging washing out to dry
and their children hunt for tiny crabs and snails.

I’m blissfully ignored
they have seen me before sitting
on an upturned rowing-boat looking at the sea.
Once one of them asked me
where my dog was,
but when I told him
that she was dead
no one asked anymore.

I sit here till the sun is too hot
and the sea hurts my eyes,
then I walk to the bridge
that binds the island to the mainland
and take the bus into Faro.
I haven’t spoken to anyone,
my own silence is deepening.