KiosK

Lemonade and queijadinhas in Principe Real. Lisbon through a window on the second floor of a building with green doors, blue tiles and stairs smelling of cat's piss.

Buying vegetables at a small mini-market in Rua da Escola Politécnica and chatting with the cashier about how fresh they are and that they came from a friend's horta just outside Lisbon. And seeing the shiny blue of the river in every end of street, and through the veil of our imagined waters; our pregnant eyes. The river is everywhere inside you.

Butterflies fluttering their wings in the Botanical Garden, stepping carefully on flowers of raspberry and thyme and some other flowers that looked blue sometimes and purple other times. More lemonade and queijadinhas at the pink kiosk. People who look like people going nowhere, others going somewhere, others just there. Then rushing to the swings for Georgie and happy chatting with the neighbourhood kids. Like swallows.

It all came easy, like pearls on an elegant neck, like water flowing from a jug in one of those days of green summer breezes blowing leaves on a tall tree. Waking up to the benevolence of the sun-god. Bathing in the warmth, just melting with pleasure. Then strolling down to Chiado, crazy with dust and wind under our wings. At the museum there was a giant beanstalk and we climbed to the clouds. And stayed there, stayed there, stayed there, watching the city below like glass beads around a castle, like droplets of honey skidding on water. Who would ever want to climb down?