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Bridgetown
A simple thing —
the mix of cinnamon and coffee
transports me 300 kilometres
to your multicoloured galley kitchen.
That arctic house,
the want of slippers
in your morning company.
I know your back by heart,
standing at the kitchen bench;
the peculiar nonchalance
of your fingers chopping fruit.
The small blonde bundle
seeking my lap,
his face upturned
in pleased wonder.
He presents to me his half-chewed banana.
We laugh
and (disgusted) I dispatch him
to his father in the next room.
I take my tea to the garden
and you follow. We sit
like a couple of cats,
absorb the meager warmth
of the early morning southwest sun.
Our silence hangs between us,
an avatar of the years,
and not for the first time
I preoccupy myself with
timebending,
grinding clocks to halts.
Messing with the passage
of the sun across this west Australian sky.
The mix of cinnamon and coffee
transports me there,
halfway through the darkness
of a Dutch Vanilla blend.
A whisper of a smile.
It’s someone else’s town these days,
but still we merry meet
in the oddest of places.
Today you live in
the coffee plunger.
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