Portugal In May

Portugal in May These rounded hills surrounding my valley is lush green with yellow flowers, wish I were a horse, no jutting military granite jaws around here; God, when making Portugal, had women in mind. A flock of sheep eagerly graze have no time to look up and see the blue spring sky, doomed as they are to produce wool and meat for Irish stew, watched over by the shepherd who sits in the shade of a carob tree and wonders what's for tea. Pretty red tractors plough soil around olive trees, perfume of newly mowed grass and roses hang in translucent air as sun filters through a mystic veil of aromatic mist of history. Yet, a slight discord in the day lingers, the donkey is absent, the last one, a grey jenny, was given to a sanctuary. That is sad, the long eared made the scenery more peaceful.