On the plateau of Alentejo
the sky is princely blue.
In a dried up lake
fish are deadly grey
and stones are white
and around its bank
yellow straw rustle in kiss of a zephyr
that smells of bull’s last breath;
and for no reason at all
I think of Aruba,
a sand-dune of an island in the Caribbean sea.
Where the sun glitters on blue water
till it is a carpet of heaving gold
Remembering forgone day
and silent nights
invincible till they began to die
and deep is the shadow of grief.
The dazzling sea
is replaced by sullen faces
narrow minded faces
of those who sailed the oceans,
docked in Havana, Valparaiso New York and Montreal,
judged what they saw
through eyes of inbred prejudices of the Nordic fishing port
hey sprung from
and never did they listen to the sea’s song.
Over Alentejo the sky is royally blue
and I remember more than I really want to.