In Oporto

It would be easy to remember
many things that day -
the jewellers and goldsmiths
in the street of flowers
or the atmospheric dilapidation
of the district by the river
yet more than anything
I recall how long the time has been
since the last rain was heard;
its steady drum
on the terracotta
the loud wash in the drain.

In the dustbowl summer
how everything falls
in the end to pollen,

its long, collective sneeze.