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A faraway place

I lived in the interior of the Algarve for many years
in a converted stable made into a cottage that
was smelling of mules when it rained.
After the heat of summers, winters were, if not
Welcome, but accepted as good for the land
Rain and damp, how great to have a wood burner
and a gas stove for cooking when electricity
broke down as it often did.
International problems of the time had a feel
of distance, nothing to with us away from the
braying crowd and the insanity of pop- culture
Walking in the woods reclaimed by nature
once small homesteads were here, people lived
in need, till they gave up this unequal struggle
and left to find their luck in the USA or Canada
Domestic trees grew wild was oddly shaped 
cottages reduced to heaps of stones under
which rabbits had found homes; and to not forget
the boar is not hunted, getting bothersome.
When my dog crossed the railway line and not
looking, I sank into gloom, the romance had gone
I had not succeeded in my endeavour, time 
to leave; eventually, everything comes to an
end, only time remains and is silent.

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