Paradise Lost


The grass is tall now a cat with a dormouse in its
mouth is watching me, not quite an African lion
as seen on a BBC, nature program

I may go to Africa in May, Congo, might not see
an elephant or a gorilla but I’m sure to find a war
somewhere in the forest, near a diamond mine.

Here, where I live, I can take off my shoes and
walk barefoot in the grass, but my feet have been
encased in shoes so long they are European now.

So am I an African? No not now, but I used to be
in an earlier life, that’s why I call Africa my home
and tend to idolize and over romanticise the place.

Portugal is a god country to live in and it is closer to
my home than, say, Sweden is, and when the south
easterly blows dust in my nose smells of Serengeti

The man on the green tractor coming, my way used
to live in Angola but had to leave, but Africa never
left him, that’s why his has a wistful smile.

The Portuguese who had to leave Africa years ago
ache for their lost love, they wear the heavy cape
of melancholy and speak of returning… one day.

A picture 1912, a woman dark sits in a courtyard
She is painting her toe nails, looks up and smile
I knew her well she used to be wife.