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.

rose coloured things

Spring is early. Dresses and skirts are out. Along with an unusual compulsion to wear pink.

Jasmine is blooming, spilling over fence-lines and filling walks to work with summery thoughts of barbecues and bare feet. Tallebudgera weekends are salt air and sunshine, walking and swimming, sunset beers on the beach. S has bent to my nudging and is going to (try to) teach me to surf. I'll help make food for her 50th celebration. The calendar is filling: a quick jaunt to Sydney to see Ben Folds at the Opera House, a weekend in a tent at Straddie.

Possibility is rife and expectant. The future is being dreamed...

The coast road. The desert. A swag and a campfire. Fishing gear and a fistful of stars. An adventure ending in a little plot of land. A deli-café? And a dog, a wood-shop and a bus. Ooh and maybe a boat!

Dreams... fluid, shimmering and unknown.