Unser Kielwasser hat sich in Öl verwandelt

Curly lines of white wool constantly changing,
Whispers of vibrant joy,
Smiles along a path,
In between patches of dreams and,
Blueprints of thoughts,
The footprint of a ferry,
Aquamarine next to the dark tears of the earth,
Towards the endless horizon.

The edge between the ocean and the wave

In the high seas, when the tide is high and the wind is light, the edge between the ocean and the wave is indistinct, a momentary change of hue, a casting off of only the slightest mane of a white horse. But in that mere moment is an awareness of the strength that underlies the movement, the depth of the churning cauldron that wraps, the power that chooses to be expressed as benign. While the ocean is the mass, the edge that defines the wave is the ripple in the skin, the stirring of the giant, the proof that the monolithic is alive with opportunity. Should it choose, and often it does, the ocean will offer edges of great moment, of destructive power, against which no force created by man can object, against which no materials of nature can ultimately resist. The edges of the ocean turn rocks to sand, land to seas, mountains to plains, levelling the outcrops through its might, the heights forever overcome by the depths. Such is the nature of this edge.

Unser Kielwasser hat sich in Öl verwandelt

the wake
behind us
left as a trace
memories
another addition to our experiences
white vibrant foaming wake
on its border it became the smooth moving dark sea
our holidays in the back
calming and balancing
we settled warm and soft
comforting like the blackdark sea in our body and soul
endless for ever
to inhale the future expeditions

Our wake has turned to oil

We were always a disturbing couple. We would travel through life regardless of the consequences, some would say without a care, without a consideration of our actions on those we passed by. But this would not be true, for we do care, we are interested in those we meet, in those we bump into in the everyday course of our events. We wish to interact for that is the way we learn, the way we increase our understanding of people and cultures, of language and poetry, of relationships and individuality. And when the time comes when that enthusiasm is lost, when our passage is without contact, without interchange, then the disturbance we might cause will be quelled, our wild nature tamed, and only then will our wake have turned to oil.

Kein Wasser und eine Portion Spargel

But blooded red Alentejo wine,
Filled with the smell of the oregano and the spiky pines,
A taste of the sandy humid willingly giving Earth along the Tejo,
And you remember the sound of a screaming seagull when you cheer your glasses
Over a plate of grilled salted Green asparagus,
Shades of Green like the soft swinging hills full of vineyards,
waving olive orchard and the tinted green of the pine forests.
White Crystals reflecting the salty endless dark blue sea with its foam of light and sparkling insouciance,
Enjoying the warm bricked dark of a wine cellar in Zamora.

No water and a dose of asparagus

He had lived in the plains below Malveira da Serra for most of his life, as his parents before him and the generations past. He had lived a simple life, his fields fed by the springs  from the hills, his soil enriched by the annual flooding of the brooks that ran through, and his crops warmed by the sun that rarely failed to shine.  His crop was asparagus, the strength and straightness of his produce being famed throughout the province, and while he was not wealthy, he got by on the good money each season would bring.  Until that year.

In that year the rains had not come as they did, the brooks did not gurgle up and the springs ran dry too soon. And as the season continued the surface of his fields did not rupture with the thrust of asparagus. Each morning as he inspected his land still no sign of a crop appeared, and so it continued for many weeks. Until, one morning late in the season two small tips emerged, scarcely breaking the surface, offering a weak but definite sign of life. The weeks passed and still only two small tips. Until in despair one morning he looked up to the heavens and, arms wide stretched, he pleaded to his God,  ‘God, apenas dois aspargos?!’

Juni/June 2024