Up along the snakeskin hill where palaces still hold court
where the rain comes in thick and the cloud gathers thin.

Out to the right of me the open sea.

I stab at Atlantean waves with a finger that points to the stars.

There is an eeriness as the darkness descends, 
all palaces and houses of men depend upon light coming in and laughter drifting out, 
this is only a summer place for living and for the eyes of the tourist a
place to enthral.

We sit at the 'Paris' in Cascais drinking tea and partaking of cake,
the crowds tumble in as we tumble out and make tracks back to the old town of Lisbon.