a golden misty cloud comes down on the city
through the window that delicious breeze
the sound of children playing far off far out
a plane the inevitable plane above us
the planes we travel through at night
the way we interpret the future
the way we anticipate our death
in a split second in time
in a split second in space
a tiny slice of civilization plods along happily
most of sydney still on holiday
its quiet out there
the pale gold thing slumbers in the drive
broken slivers of mirrors
ants n thorny weeds
sand like grey dusty soil surprisingly yields a riot of flowers
people check into their rooms
a million soy lattes are on the bubble
people with their plans for extensions
a cape cod n a rumpus room with ocean glimpses
and in this weather my thoughts turn to the indian gods
and to the jungles and forests
and the swans gliding on ponds which reflect the bengali sky
and i sit in the quiet darkness of the forest of suburbia
and the trees moving bending gracefully in seabreezes
and the twinkling streetlights like stars
as the light turns to peach
and everything is temporarily soft
the flyscreens are busted n flap in the wind
clouds hover like equatorial fish
rice paper rolls for dinner
we sit in the grey quiet of the kitchen
the parrots call out chatter and are suddenly silent
some trees hardly move in the winds
they stand erect like phalli
immovable
other trees bounce and shiver and shimmy down
all from the same soil n water n sun these different trees
i go swimming
in the pool is a piece of eel
i bump into it
it had gone thru the pump explained a guy who works there
in the sauna a few regulars a few strangers sweat it out
tho in truth one did not need a sauna today
ah but now the payoff
this delightful evening has arrived
people still half celebrating something they half forgotten
for 2 hours the world hangs suspended in twilight
everything is possible
things exchange shapes and move on
move on into warm darkness
move on into prehistoric summer night