At night
Garema Place is
rubber on corrugated cobble.
Spokes up against the stars.
Smoky aphorisms, phantasms of friend and lamplight
and trees shot through with thin red fruit.
Conversations drift away like a cold shower.
Riding in
and out again.
Garema Place is
a thing sharp and lucid.
Sitting lizard-like upon the base of my spine
draped across my ribs
in acid nostalgia.
Aching.
Remembering
and washing away.
Garema Place is
an escape
at least for a while.
Three bikes on cobble.
I feel a centring of myself
like planets coming into orbit.
Winter crawls in
as past crawls into present
and things, once done, never to be undone
are merely framed
and remembered.
Fruits, accepted and eaten, not for tomorrow
but for the day after that
and after that again.
Things once simple
are now entangled beyond belief.
But I’ve seen enough to know that
the horizon
is just over the next hill.
We acknowledge the Ngunnawal and Ngambri people, who are the Traditional Custodians of the land on which Woroni, Woroni Radio and Woroni TV are created, edited, published, printed and distributed. We pay our respects to Elders past and present. We acknowledge that the name Woroni was taken from the Wadi Wadi Nation without permission, and we are striving to do better for future reconciliation.