There was rain before we came and the brown

boned earth has turned lush and verdant,

dotted with tiny yellow bells and circles,

when the blanket of mist has been raised.

 

Cranes have become more populous,

inhabiting all points of the compass,

overseeing their charges like teachers

assigned to playground duty.

 

The buildings rise slowly, except for

the skeleton house across the scrubland,

a stillbirth staring bleakly,

an unfinished game of Jenga.

 

In the twilighting forest at Barao,

the humming of cicadas is an alarm

triggered too late, the mosquitoes

already siphoning our blood.

 

On the clifftop from Praia de Mos to Luz

the ocean gleamed like a great balloon

that beckoned for small warriors

to puncture with sticks and stones.

 

By mistake I strolled into a Wellness Resort.

It took half an hour to manage an escape

from sundry therapists and life coaches,

hell-bent on improving my fitness.

 

In the town many of the shops are shut,

there are fewer cars and tourists

but a greater abundance of dogshit.

I sip my port and seek out correlation.