Better Than Having Nothing To Say

I begin again on the same path I take every day, past the familiar fences, hedges and duck under the same sag of overhanging trees. Past the house with the sociopathic dog, the cottage still hung with christmas lights from months ago and a pink weatherboard bungalow whose front yard is populated with mushrooms and garden gnomes with a recalcitrant peeing into a fountain shaped like a scallop shell. Then the opulent splendor and stand-offish demeanor of a thicket of town houses all with porsches and mercs parked crooked across manicured driveways. And next door, an old mansion that hasn't seen a coat of paint since Elvis strut the stage, curtains drawn, the structure stately in its ruin, defiant in old age, sliding towards demolition or resurrection with its secrets still intact. Then, at the end of the street, a vista of the river mouth opening into the wide reaches of Port Phillip Bay. I take a seat and begin, as I always do, to rummage for a poem, a starting line or two, for something profound to say. Today, a blank silence, a totally empty haul except for what I saw as I passed along the street and have recorded here which is probably better than having nothing to say at all. Tomorrow I might try to go another way.