Sunday Afternoon

Saturday afternoon The wind blew hard this afternoon in Cascais whirls of dry soil, the dust, smarted eyes Not much fun walking around doing nothing looking into shop windows of expensive dresses A barber shop was still open, and a barber with scissors in his hand looked haughty, challenging me to enter, oh, no, my man, my wife cuts my hair I hate having a haircut, a few strands of hair left on my scalp, may not grow back. Horses turn their back to the wind, and I had to face the blast going home. I sat on the terrace, looking at the sea that was greenish today; I don’t look at the ocean often having seen the sea until tedium while waiting for the potatoes to boil. But I do remember the Caribbean Sea, with a dulcet smile.