“You can’t park here without a permit.”
“I’ve bin’ comin’ round ‘ere longer than them petty council laws were in place.” She hobbled down the steps clutching a walking stick. Continue reading “Painted Ruse”
“You can’t park here without a permit.”
“I’ve bin’ comin’ round ‘ere longer than them petty council laws were in place.” She hobbled down the steps clutching a walking stick. Continue reading “Painted Ruse”
It was a time when bathers & boardies became wardrobe necessities
and smeared sunscreen and floppy hats were common accessories.
Maths is forgotten on countless surfboard tumbles & kickboard glides
and where our English lessons were compromised.
Our screams deafened from sand dune slides
yet, we listened to Surf Lifesavers’ lessons
on spotting sharks and surviving riptides.
It was a time of drowsy afternoons of ice cream cones & sticky fingers
where lanky limbs hung over the veranda’s hammock swings.
We’d rest peeling sunburnt skin and gritty eyes,
as a chance to repair kites and fishing lines.
But as the sun simmers its summer spin
the shack’s lights spread across the warm sand
tasting barbecued snags
we’d craft our bonfire singalongs,
pirate wars, and ghosted mermaid tales,
to the finale’s yawning chorus of ‘not-tired’ wails.
Ending in slumber on bunk beds cooled by a reef’s breeze
where we’d wish away school bells and the oncoming winter freeze.
They fed
off others’ fear
polluting the atmosphere
like a sideshow of mirrored shrieks
unleashing their own wintered Dorian freaks.
Until a battle-worn body
with a mind
once confined
to the catalogues of chaos,
found his newly lost identity
amidst an ancient assassin’s ancestry.
Where once,
slave sold
by blue-blooded gold,
reborn of the hunted he preyed
for the revenge, he carried against all those betrayed.