Alexander Graham Bell
Alexander Graham Bell
It was fine, quiet winter´s day I listened to distant noise,
dogs bark -you can´t avoid this in the Algarve-
smoke from chimneys straight up before disbursing and disappearing.
A few clouds drift about looking like wedding dresses of the unmarried,
The sun is a golden coin captain hook would kill to obtain.
I smell grilled sardine, and a cat on a fence is watching me.
I sternly tell myself to go for a walk before it gets too cold
But blithely ignore the inner voice.
As I drift on a slothful cumulus, my phone rings
I answer the voice says, sorry, the wrong number.
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