Inexplicable Winds

You wouldn't say it was a windy day. But just as I was passing North Terrace House this morning, on my way to a lunch hour concert, a leaf blew up into my hand. No, I didn't catch it, it blew up from the footpath and lodged itself between two of my fingers, which at the time happened to be a exactly a leaf width apart. I thought it quite remarkable.

Later, in the concert hall, listening to the Wind Ensemble, I began to contemplate the inexplicability of winds. This came about because I was trying to match up the composers' intentions as set forth in the program notes with the actual sounds that were coming out of the instruments, and they did not seem to match up.

One of the percussionists was clashing the cymbals very close to her fringe. You would have thought perhaps the wind she created would have moved the fringe but no, it moved her ponytail instead.

They played The Dam Busters march. An old man in the row in front of me tapped his knee in time. Ahh, I thought, it'll soon be Anzac Day. He will probably be weeping by the end. But it was me who had a teary eye when everyone stopped clapping.

On the walk home it was still not windy. The sky was high and grey and a few little spots of rain fell on the footpath which was littered with fallen leaves.

The wind is like music, I thought, and the fallen leaves and gumnuts and blossoms are the applause.

I was pleased with this thought, and it did not matter one bit to me that it made no sense at all.

Samphire Part One

Today I'm going to take you on a walk, through the Onkaparinga River Recreation Park, at Port Noarlunga.

We'll start at the carpark in front of the playground with the wooden castle, and the picnicking families eating their lunch. Behind us is Saltfleet Street, the Onkaparinga River, the sand dunes and the sea, but we're not going that way. No. It's too windy.

We're going to the northern end of the playground, over the grass, to Britain Drive, along Britain Drive, past cliffs bristling with dying aloes, below clifftop houses that look rather new. Britain Drive ends in a football oval, at the entrance to which is a sentry box and a dusty blue chair.

We'll cross the oval and walk to a break in the fence on the far side where a sign will warn us not to think of swimming in the water. We will not have been thinking of it. Particularly as we have just passed a sign warning us that asbestos might be there.

We find some wooden steps leading down to the mudflats, and a trail leading south through the wetlands. Down the steps, banked with yellow soursobs. Today we shall call them oxalis. No we shan't, that's a bit too pretentious.

The mudflats are covered with the green, brown and red-tipped succulent you don't know the name of. Neither do I. It's repellant and beautiful at the same time. The estuaries glint like flat sardine tin lids. There are not many birds and two of them are seagulls. Do you agree that if you take off your sunglasses it looks more colourful here? A richness of orange, purple and black that you hadn't noticed when you had them on?

The trail we're following is narrow. Damp mud drying into curled up squares of clay. Grey, and sloppy in parts. Let's go off to the right a bit, to slightly higher ground, where the soursobs are.

What are these bushes? Don't you know, either? They're broken, tight and scratchy, half dead, or all dead. Angry-faced black gumnuts on a dead branch. Crispy curly brown seed pods under crispy curly leaves. Gum trees. Gum trees. And yet it doesn't look bad.

Where's the river? There. We're just coming up to it. Its wide here, and flowing backwards. On the other side are people fishing. Look at our little trail now. It's as wide as a human foot, with green and yellow oxalis knee high on both sides.

I'm going to leave you now. Just wait here, I'll be back in 24 hours. It won't seem like that to you though. And when I return, I'll know the names of some of those bushes and trees.

A Walk

It is last week. No, it is this week, but it is last Thursday. Or is it last Wednesday? No, because one of us is carrying the empty shoebox. It is Thursday.

We are walking to the Kmart. It is cloudy. There are hundreds of gumnuts on the footpath. They act like ball bearings, but they look like little chocolate cups.

If they were made of chocolate, they wouldn't act like ball bearings. They would simply be crushed underfoot. The smell of chocolate would waft upwards. That would be nice. But the chocolate would stick to the bottom of our shoes.

We are talking. Do your new shoes hurt? No, not yet.

The seed pods from the jacaranda trees look like dragons' mouths, or double slices of dried yam.

In the car park near the bins the ground is littered with paper, and something that looks like a glamorous high heeled shoe. It is red and purple and silver, but strangely crumpled. It isn't a shoe. It is a screwed-up foil bag for keeping a cooked chicken hot in.

Ashbrook Avenue

It is the evening after a hot day. Pliny and Nostradamus are walking north along Ashbrook Avenue as far as the lane where figs and grapes overhang the back fences. Ashbrook Avenue is long and suburban. It is neither well kept nor neglected. There are gumnuts on the the uneven footpath. There are pine trees at the edge of the sports field inside the fence. The clubhouse at the far end of the oval is lit up and there is a sound of voices. The graveyard is quiet. Every house and block of flats has a garden, some look watered, most look dry. A peach tree on a corner. Vines overhanging fences, grapes withered and small. A man with a hose.

The sky is the palest blue. There is a pink and gold cloud to the west. Several people walking dogs, looking straight ahead.

Pliny and Nostradamus reach the lane. They find some grapes that are large and juicy, tasting of passionfruit. They eat a few. The figs are hard and unripe.

They turn towards home along Ashbrook Avenue. It is the time when evening steals the colour from the trees. The air is warm. A few stars are visible and the moon. Passing the graveyard Pliny looks for the flashing red lights on the Italian row, which once had scared her, but tonight they are off. Even the dead are saving power. From the pine trees by the oval comes a scent of long ago. It is still a fair way to home.