The End of Europe

On a walk, on the edge of green,
Hidden inside the branches
Of Portuguese trees,
I felt again—or didn’t feel—
A whisper under my feet.

With my eyes soaking the blood
And mustard shades of Sintra
Her palace shadowing the sea,
I felt again—not really—
The softness inside my shoe.

Inside my Goretex, inside the clouds
That wrung themselves out on Colares,
Rain guttering in the trackside,
I crushed the fibres—and they sprang back—
The fabric ensconced in my boot.

Before the hike, before the storms,
Before the howling dogs followed us.
Before we crossed the dark road of Sao Pedro,
I gave one shop six pounds—all coins—
For socks, and found a way to the end of Europe.