Odemira

for Manuel Branco

Quem se lembra
da poesia
que nos contava em segredo?

We thought we'd meet a potter, met a poet
too; at the end of a long track
like a vein of thought running hidden off the road
he emerged in a white beard and slacks,

clay-thumbing spirit of the revolution,
Com Homem Dentro, the victory of the red carnation.
I told him in French how a toothless old crone
with her three-legged dog and wild gesticulations

had shown us where to go, like something out of myth.
'Cerberus,' he smiled, 'pas têtes, mais jambes.'
The pottery shed had a cobwebbed look,
...