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.