A Pavement Cafe

In the café where I sit I can see the village’s church, nice building typical Portuguese architecture and painted white. I walked inside it once, didn’t like that so much, as it had dark corners and whiffed of sins not yet forgiven. It is quiet here now as the people prepare for winter sleep in damp houses. There are a few tourists about mostly elderly bad on their feet. The church bell tolls one o’clock, it is good to know time even in Paradise. Today I will go for a walk in the village’s cemetery a lovely place full of flowers and often with pictures of the departed when they looked ruddily healthy and the claw of death had yet to touch them; and I mustn’t forget the good silence. Whatever the argument was it means nothing anymore. The waiter brings me a coffee and a sly cigarette which I smoke with guilty pleasure, yet looking out for my doctor he often comes here for his coffee. Yes, this is another perfect day.