Neville

Algarvia

Algarvia

 

It was somewhere between

Villa Paradaria

and the Taberna Tres Dukes

that I somehow

lost count of the number

of stockings

and sun-bleached torn ribbon

all strung out in rows

both above and across the old

narrow streets

that which make up

The Fisherman’s quarter

just off Ferragudo ..

Yes there, where the sidewalks

are still liberally strewn

with discarded oyster shells,

pieces of roughly hewn cork

and fishing nets

drying against the sides of these

small upturned

and seemingly resting,

blue and white sailboats

the locals here, are all known for ..

And, where in those

moments occasionally lost when

nothing else matters

between my strong black coffee

and medronho shots ..

I have, now and then been known

to worry and wonder ..

Do the resident ghosts here each

still cast their shadows all be it

now ever so lightly ..

Because I swear, I caught sight of

her earlier ..

In a roadside café

with a Portuguese sailor

where they were picking over

the bones of grilled fresh sardinhas

and sipping green wine

from an old earthenware cup,

which the locals all call Vinho Verde ..

So yes, my dear friend,

it is shamefully true, I must now

confess, it was indeed there

where I last mouthed her name ..