Autumn 2015

Moving back to the city...

Then there's this.

Breathing here away from the salt

no sign of the sea.

Inhaling town-houses exhaling grey skies.

Trees bereft of leaves protruding

from encroaching sub-divisions.

Some said I was in exile in the bush

some scoffed. Said I was left behind.

So life is in the city then, in this suburbia

in this chaos, in search of parking in vain.

Rooftops incite tears. What.

You jail me here

and claim I have returned to life?

F*****g shoes.

The sand between my toes

all gone. All gone the passing ships

and gleeful screams of children at the pier.

A few hundred metres from here

outdoor tables and gossip people.

So many people.

I hide. Missing the pesky magpies

and the stillness just before dawn

when the air impetuously drifted

from the bay to my waking.

I miss my freedom. Miss One more.

Rooftops do not bring you to me

same as walking endless sandy stretches,

footprints in familiar directions.