winter in Cascais

Winter in Cascais

This is a cold day, and bleak too, like a fish left behind
on the grass verge when the anglers go home for lunch
Sport fishing doesn't mean you want to eat the prizes
She is having salmon today at the cafe on the first floor of our building,
I, when a farm boy in Norway, was served salmon or trout every day except Sundays
will settle for a slice of ham, boiled potatoes and salad
Olive oil is used here in Portugal, but I think food tastes better with butter.
So, said the great chef and entertainer who hung himself
with a towel hooked to a doorknob; his death tells us how little we know of other people's suffering, that can go so much deeper than we pedestrian folk can imagine.
Food doesn't mean so much anymore I eat because of annoying diabetes, but the healthy appetite has gone
The cafe serves a glass of good red wine with lunch
I like wine, but can only drink the red variety, that's OK,
I can live with this handicap and not feel prejudiced
On blue-tainted days, the best thing to do is to it indoors
and read a favorite book, a good book, can be reread several times when coming to pages know and agree with the writer on, and together laugh with the author