A Valley In Portugal

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.