Martha Landman

And here I am at Surfers Palm
There a lone figure battles the beach
Clouds grizzle and rise above the gale
The Morton Bay Fig’s a stature of dignity

The island, on this grey winter-day’s
a cloak of sensuality
Lorikeets bombard my morning walk
Is that a snakeskin slithering wet?

At the pizzeria I lament the drizzle
(The waiters all thinly hipped)
Small talk skirts around my manuscript
And in his thick Italian voice he says
Blue skies just don’t work in an English mystery

It’s almost time for lunch
When he tells me how the wallaby jumped his car
Rain bucketing down relentlessly
My tropical respite a mixture of black & white acidity
On a page as grey as the colour of surrender.