Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
Sentinel Marked as if you own me I bow before the Bitterroots and just like you my rocky soil, my withered grass lays prey to the empty sky. © Kåre Enga 2007 "Sentinel" Reader's Choice of Poems: "Sentinel" "Where grows the compost heap" "Waterlily" "Speak soft my name" "Starbeams on Tulsa" Reader's Choice of blog entries from my old blog "L'aura del Campo" : "Death of Jeannie New Moon" "Doing and don'ting. A scene in 2nd person." "In a garden of roses, baby" "Footprints in the snow, in memory of Nyia Page" "Poems inspired by maps. Remember 1963?" FACES PLACES Kåre Enga ~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
Portugal is stone and tiles. There are ruins everywhere. In Braga the train station has the remains of a pre-Roman bath. The Greeks of the day wrote about them. Newer ruins are everywhere. Buildings just don't burn down. They sag. Windows gone, roofs gone, walls still solid. I'll need to write about how it affects me emotionally. But right now? Tiring day. Visited Braga by train, then got lost in the Ribeira in Porto. No energy. No appetite. Couldn't finish a meal, a francesinho (sausage, bacon, meat, cheese, egg...). Now not happy about trip to Spain, a real pain to plan. So... basically still doing so-so. Lovely gardens in Braga though and lots of tourists and visitors for Holy Week. |