Portuguese Postcard

An avenue of squat palms and the cascading yellow of Mimosa pompoms on a journey that seems endless; racing swallows through the stirring skeletons of ancient vineyards. Oranges trussed up in red nets punctuate the dusty roadside waiting patiently on tired, old trestle tables shaded from the early sun by a faded, lilac sheet. And the blue bucket and yellow spade are overawed by the white sea foam. Did the lobster ever claw its way out and ask if there was sugar? There’s sand left between the pages unturned, unfinished thoughts and conversations hang achingly near. Buttermilk facades reflect the gentle warmth, coaxing burgeoning growth on the fecund fig; green polyps of promise for a luscious, lazy lunch later in the season. White star flowers polka-dot the lemon tree already heavy with tantalising citrus tears. Sprigs of verdant mint spike upwards pushing rebelliously through sun-bleached decking. Lavender flags line the route to the pretty pale alabaster memorials where floral wreaths mark the place where earthly love was laid to rest. And tied up with pretty, pink ribbon a basket wrapped in cellophane; a gift for a life’s new beginning.