The plane trees arch,
a meeting of forest green and
summer-browned leaves shaped
like pronged palms,
create a corridor of shade.
Perched on the peak of the hill, the church spire spears the pinkening sky.
On the street below, a young lady, teeters in platform shoes, 8 inches closer to the sky.
She trundles along the footpath, sitting courtly on her electric-powered tricycle, her snow-white hair tied into a neat bun just below her crown and her black spoodle on short rein galloping sideways to keep up.
Perched on the streetlight, a pair of yellow-crested cockatoos supervise the evening traffic.
Silver doors pulled open by an unknown, unseen hand.
The carriage, peak-hour empty, crowded floor, wall and ceiling with scribbled words scrubbed til faded.
The breeze brushes over the blades of summer grass scorched olive green and hay. Only those that raise their blunted tips to salute the midday sun, shimmy and shake then return to stillness in its wake.
Kneeling on the empty desk, nose pressed against the window, scanning the space between here and out there, twenty-three floors above the lunchtime city traffic, until I see another. A leaf, the colour of burnt tangerine, its fingers crisped and lightly curled, soaring higher, skyward.
On the dresser a lone candle flickers and gently illumines her image. Each arm wrapped around a smiling toddler held firm against her chest. A soft smile. A coquettish gaze. An intimate moment eternal. She is now sixteen years gone.
Across the bronzed pond, the invisible breeze scatters disappearing diamonds.
Lifting the lid; soft grains of dark russet flecked with gold, breathing in roasted earth and sunshine soon to be brewed and plunged into the morning’s bitter dark elixir.