Faja dos Bodes

How is it this place has taken up lodging in my heart?
This end-of-the-road no-where-else-to-go place.
This place of falling down stone dwellings at the edge of the sea.
The Braille of a foreign landscape calls me,
Awakens desire.
Walks through rooms, shares a table,
Opens and closes windows,
Pulls up the sheets of a tossed bed.
Lodging in my heart.
A structure empty, filled.
Wide rain, an open doorway.
Wild berry vines in a discarded corner.
A stream of blood pulses beneath skin.
How many winters?
The Cory's Shearwater dips low over the rubble landscape,
It's mewing call punctuating the night air, a fog drifting in.
Faja dos Bodes, Sao Jorge Island, Azores
July 17, 2014