on sardined sea-brined air I taste Lisbon's

rich past from the Tagus that still aches

with saudade and melancholic cries of fado,

a story of men yearning to conquer the whole of

the sea. Sorrow sheds tears, and from above

a millefeuille of sea-facing structures hides 

the graffiti of grief behind blue-tiled facades.

below, shards of light reflect like glass

from intricate mosaics of cobblestones

around ornate squares, and my lips

are kissed by fruits of the sea.

in Café Martinho da Arcada I sit where Pessoa 

sat, tasting the espresso aroma of his words that 

speak to me from tables, chairs and nicotined walls. 

outside, a number 28 tram rattles past, grating and 

whining. The rain has stopped. A wagtail bobs by, 

full of knowing. I notice magnolia blossom. The first

taste of spring.