Sometime once a while ago I drove to Portugal and felt its private sun beam down in yellow bands to warm and paint the saddle leather seats of British racing sleek green cat.
We prowled the roads in twists and turns that challenged rubber paws to cling at speeds that steady, swiftly moved us up and held us down upon the mountain paths to peek between the trees that shook their heads in gusty disapproval as we passed.
We split the country end to end and on our right were red blooming hills and on our left the sea so deep and blue it spit white foam in its excitement at our joy. With the salty tasting wind we flew until a puss meandered from a cliffside home and boldly faced us down upon the trail.
Braking, waking in a downward spiral our frenzied pace increased until slow motion recognition softly sank us into blueness of the sea and day.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology