Shining Light

Shining Light Sometimes light in Algarve is too sharp I can see the lot at once, the future, past and the landscape. All is white, have I been where I’m going, or I’m coming back from where I have not been? I sit in the shade under a carob tree and watch ants going down a hole with bits of twigs preparing for a nuclear holocaust, and the catastrophe that befalls all groups of people sooner or later. Light is no longer white but amber and a magazine editor says I’m Danish, yet published my poem; it doesn’t matter that I have lost my old identity, he could have called me a Palestinian for all I care.