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A Valley in Portugal. 
I have promised to visit my brother in Spain. I’m not leaving yet, 
the fall here in my vale is too beautiful to leave right now; it is
the wonderful colours and in the meadow rabbits play… 
or used to, I have not walked in the forest for a while, legs tired, 
but head is young. But I have added a bit of colour too painted 
the yard beige, the floor painted green; wife worried seeing me 
on a step ladder. I love the fall, it is so soft and gentle, but we
know it will be windy and rainclouds will cross the sky; October 
will be bad tempered, torrential rain will hammer on roof tiles. 
I love seeing rain, and see the greening of a sun tired nature.
I can’t leave that month either. Perhaps I will visit my brother in 
January when the sun has lost its power yet looks beautiful when 
its sets painting the clouds crimson. My brother lives at a tourist 
resort, swimming pool and all that, entertainers in bars singing
about the old days; and bingo. And I will be sitting there drinking 
too much and think, what the hell do I care about the old day,
poverty and belching factories, air smelling as the entrance of hell.
No, I want to go home to my vale in Portugal where I lived many 
many generations ago, and old olive trees still remember me.

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