Not yet knowing

she walks with a companion through the park
to buy perfume now her sense of smell is back;
in store for her, an unlocking of time.

forgotten the logic of perfume,
the meaning, the choosing of the memory
and the glamour of the name.

locked in glass cabinets guarded by dragons
elizabeth taylor charlie fire and ice
tabu.

in body shop the staff ignore the customers,
dressed as americans
giggling in a corner.

she tries white musk,
white musk with iris,
neroli jasmine and vanilla bean.

the companion's nose agrees
with her nose
neroli is nicest

in the the park
under the bridge
the ducks sniff the air.

she drifts by
not yet knowing
it's the right one.

Another Walk

It is Saturday afternoon. We're walking along that section of the Linear Park between the St Peters Billabong and the University Footbridge. It is cloudy, hopeful. The trees are tall, or the path is low. Anyway, there's not too much sky.

The river is on our left. It is glossy dark brown and reflects a cliff. A white drain pipe runs down the cliff and disappears into the water, where it becomes a reflection of itself disappearing under the cliff in the opposite direction. A motionless scum floats on the surface of the water. Reeds collapsing at the edge. Orange flowers.

How are your new shoes? They hurt a bit. Do you have a bandaid? Yes, I do.

There is a smell of something. Ducks, the Zoo, sewage. Cyclists pass. Ibis, moorhen. Angry black swans.

Before we reach the Footbridge we drop something into a bin.

At the Art Gallery Coffee Shop the sun comes out. And now we are in. The interior glass superimposes ladies eating coffee and cake over a series of Margaret Prestons. Still lifes. Patterned bowls of Australian flowers. The yellow leaves from the trees in front of the gabled Curator's Lodge drift across the conversation. She loves glass.

We walk back the same way. How is it? Alright now.