These rounded hills surrounding my valley are lush
green with yellow flowers, wish I were a horse, no
jutting military granite jaws around here; God, when
making Portugal, had women in mind.
A flock of sheep eagerly graze, have no time to look
up and see the blue spring sky, doomed as they are
to produce wool and meat for Irish stew, watched
over by the shepherd who sits in the shade of a carob
tree and wonders what's for tea.
Pretty red tractors plough soil around olive trees,
perfume of newly mowed grass and roses hang in
translucent air as sun filters through a mystic veil
of aromatic mist of history. Yet, a slight discord in
the day lingers, the donkey is absent, the last one,
a grey jenny, was given to a sanctuary. That is sad,
the long eared made the scenery more peaceful.
