Oh, I'm so tired it is hurting me
endless wars and commentators commenting
along the line of their conviction or
the think-tank that pays them.
I long for the autumn colours north of Portugal
a place to heal abused body and
a soul full of distress
I will go for a week or two, drive there myself
and stop when it pleases me.
In the evening at a small hotel I will drink red wine
with my meal, facing away from the TV;
lovely food up north and gentle people.
Algarve where I live has become too hectic with impatient
people buzzing me wanting to go home
to see about wars or football.
Yes, for sure I will go in September and not forget
the camera to record what I saw.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem