Participating in the Mindful Writing Challenge of writing a 'smallstone' each day during January 2013
Lime green canvas shoes slap the pavement with resilient repetition. Eyes riveted, I follow across gutter and tram track.
In the spotlight of the lamp, I wake from abandonment to the urgency of broken phrases and the indent of a pen upon my cheek.
Behind the wipers, the city wears mist like furry mould. I think of all the grey in life, that once was black and white.
Beneath the gutters
strings of diamonds.
A bear of a dog, large as a man, sits in the passenger seat of a passing car, arm casually dangling from the window, smiling.
The moon wears a rusty halo, enduring as a stain, despite the cyclone-nudged scudding clouds that slide across her curves.
Corellas patrol the streets, wheeling above me, calling each to each. So busy in the airspace, I feel the urge to duck.
The guitar notes cut through the TV noise, strumming me. Every cell resonates as if I am the melody and nothing else exists.
Cicadas pulse in the heat. The park exudes a childhood scent of cut grass, so desiccated I imagine a whiff of burning on the air.
I ride the escalator, rising above a mass of red and gold Chinese lanterns. Inert suns suspended in my lunch hour, and I in orbit.
A parade of planes, airport-bound, out-roars my thoughts, now replaced by the complex pitch and rhythm of sucked and spiralling air.
At the traffic lights
a red light
on a distant tower
blinks away my thoughts.
livid in transition
from secret bud
to scarlet arrow.
Death mimics life. I mimic the pigeons as we all peer tentatively at the wing of a dead pigeon fluttering in the breeze.
I could be in a gallery contemplating the piece before me.
My heart races as fast as the fire on the news. A singed sheep drops to its knees and I close my eyes.
It's summer, not autumn, yet the gutters vanish under dead leaves, swirling at surprised feet that skid on their papery mischief.
Sirens. A door closes. The foliage drips. Dog paws patter across wet pavings. The thunder of a low plane obliterates all.
The flying fox is just a silhouette but I can see its clawed wings pull a branch closer and its fervid lapping at gum blossoms.
Water green as lilies.
Hardhead ducks as reticent as stray dogs.
My camera is not bread.
Like rubber ducks, umber-glazed bodies hang in the window, necks craned, heads askew, while the chop chop of a cleaver smashes bone.
Cheek to the bitumen
drinks from a puddle
40 degrees Celsius. The shade of one large plane tree harbours 20 stationary seagulls. Another has 12 white ibis slowly circling its trunk to avoid pedestrians that come too close. The benches along the park path hold sprawling tourists with their luggage mountains and homeless men, mostly asleep - although one smiles at me. My icy skin savours the oven-blast of the searing north-westerly bushfire-wind, before I make my way back to the air-conditioned office.
Beside the bed
a dishevelled pyramid
I'm too tired to read.
One white feather
suspended in foliage
holds the memory
of Corella mirth.
A wasp dangles stiff legs
like jammed landing gear
on a jumbo jet.
The iron gate is cool against my hot skin as I lean into the sea breeze and know how lucky I am.
Low tide. Oysters cling to the sea wall. I inhale the same fish-salty breeze as those who stood here did, 50,000 years ago.
In an all-grey tableau of sky, water and fish, a tiny mullet leaps into the air and skips like a stone across the water's surface.
I mirror the universe. As I step into the night with my dog, Orion with Canis Major at his heel, is striding across the sky.
The moon crept from clouds of ice and fireworks, bitten and misshapen in her wane, yet trimming the clouds with luminous lace.