A Little Tin
It was an impecunious life of penury
for years in Portugal.
An old clay cottage , bamboo, tiles
white walls … our bodies
tinted by the ever burning sun….
….but though the sun was hot
my modest cash flow froze
as solid as the frigid Alps;
I’d lost my job.
I painted windmills…Moorish doors
The streets of Lisbon, Alentejo fields,
Lagos, Luz and crumbling houses
Cottages with growing vines.
I sold them for a song..I’d learned to sing.
I had a little tin…the smiling childish grin
was heartening.
and when some money came my way
I stuffed it in.
That gave security… For modest things,
For sandals in the sand.
The taste of summer grape or peach
or eating chicken piri piri on the beach.
It was a life.
I still have the little tin.
It’s moved from house to house
with me….pillar to post.
But now his cap is lost.
That saddens me…my little smiling friend.
Kristine Byrne 9th August 2019