Algarvia

It was somewhere between
Villa Paradaria
and the Taberna Tres Dukes
that I somehow
lost count of the number
of stockings
and sun-bleached torn ribbon
all strung out in rows
both above and across the old
narrow streets
that which make up
The Fisherman’s quarter
just off Ferragudo ..
Yes there, where the sidewalks
are still liberally strewn
with discarded oyster shells,
pieces of roughly hewn cork
and fishing nets drying
against the sides of these small
upturned
and seemingly resting,
blue and white sailboats
the locals here, are all known for ..
And, where in those
moments occasionally lost when
nothing else matters
between my strong black coffee
and medronho shots ..
I have, now and then, been known
to worry and wonder ..
Do the resident ghosts here each
still cast their shadows all be it
now ever so lightly ..
Because I swear, I caught sight of
her earlier ..
In a roadside café
with a Portuguese sailor
where they were picking over
the bones of grilled fresh sardinhas
and sipping green wine
from an old earthenware cup,
which the locals all call Vinho Verde ..
So yes, my dear friend,
it is shamefully true, I must now
confess, it was indeed there
where I last mouthed her name ..