15 September 2009

spring time, sydney town


First weekend of spring.
Time stops in a musk-scented garden.
And begins again on dusk.
Farm Cove. Mrs Macquarie's Chair. Sounds like a big colonial doll's house.
And like dolls we sit on the grass and watch
as the moonrise trumps the bridge in a silent argument about the bigger spectacle.
We ride old-school ferries to Manly and rewrite the great Aussie pie.
Pumpkin and fetta? Pies at the beach?
And we walk. And sit by seaside pools of molten gold.
Cabbage Tree Bay. Bare fingers of frangipani point to blue skies.
Late afternoon chill and bruschetta in Bronte. The woman in the cafe gives us blankets.
A yellow balloon rides the breeze above the Waverley Cemetery.
Celluloid unreality.
Saltblown. Somehow closer.
Then a bus, a train and a mad dash to scrub up.
Ben Folds. Second row seats at the Opera House.
Request bowl, piano stool, melancholy.
Warm hands.
In a wink everything unclenches.
Except hope, held tight.









2 comments:

beth said...

Gorgeous. Words and pictures! Mmm, I miss that Sydney air...

the cook said...

Thanks B! Mmm I do love the salty Sydney air, blue skies and even temperatures...