06 August 2019

August in Algarve

Today, the seventh anniversary of the day my mother left us, I take a break to publish one of her many poems.


Relentless sun beat down to scorch the earth,
To tan its worshippers upon the sand,
To sear the clinging vegetation, and
bleach rocks exposed by winter’s pounding surf.

Ocre and umber cliffs and green stone-pine
Enthral the eye against the brilliant hue
Of shimmering summer sky, which never knew
A cloud’s intrusion. Little children play
Where rippling wavelets sink into the sand
As mighty ocean marries with the land.

Whilst inland, fruit hangs heavy on the vine
Imbibing sun for sweetening the wine,
And tapping poles of peasant gatherers cull
the ripened almond from the splitting hull.

Then comes a strong ‘Levanta’ wind to steal
All the calmness from this Algarve scene;
Paradise stays thus where it has ever been....

(c) E. Dorothy Reid


Rick Roberts, GlobalGenealogy.com said...

Poetry is the form of composition that most intimately reveals the essence of the writer. This is a beautiful piece... you are so fortunate that she shared these thoughts.

Norma said...

Having spent many winters in the Algarve, this describes it all so well. Rick Roberts has expressed my sentiments perfectly. Thank you for sharing this lovely piece