Of peak hour traffic on Punt Road,
Cast iron and victorian green.
The love for seasons
That quickly became an eagerness for summer.
Of holding tightly to warm flesh
In crisp mornings, still blue.
Skipping on cushions of amber leaves
Down the centre strip of a cul de sac.
Fresh (then refreshed) marvel at the beauty of magnolias against gothic facades,
Clear blue sky over the Majorca Building,
White-washed terraces, and candyfloss blossoms.
Of falling on footpaths flanked by the early buds of spring, grassy green everywhere.
Chocolate sundae on sweat-damp beach towel,
Sand between toes, salty hair.
Afternoon cocktails that smell of lychees;
Cigarettes and beer over guilt-ridden conversations;
Cigarettes and gin and tonics under the sunset, just when burnt sienna meets watercolour teal.
Between the first summer and this winter
I've discovered almost 20 descriptions for pink.
I finally found ready-made honey pop corn that I'd eat,
Although I do wish they'd sell it at the cinema.
The smell of rain and shower steam;
Peony roses on the passenger seat.
The sight of white cocktatoos perched on the median strip of the Eastern Freeway as I drive to work,
The sound of my kitten heels rapping on cobblestone laneways.
Of mismatched chairs and orange coffee machines;
Country slow service and a whole lot of Sunday drivers.
Of moments alone.
All to myself, all for myself.
Ikebana with kangeroo paw,
Chinese stirfries with broccoli and capsicum.
*
Why is she going,
If not for chance?
*
Between booking flights, bubblewrapping perfume bottles, and late night conversations,
I've neglected nostalgia.
Now I sit in the leafy courtyard at a little Brighton cafe,
Swigging Genovese lattes and my last days of winter.
It comes to me.
*
Martin St Cafe, Brighton, 27 July 2004