Paradise Lost

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.