Grange at Sunset

When it's hot, like this, we go to the beach at sunset. On Friday we went to Grange.

The sun sets at 8.30pm. At 8.20 the sky at the horizon is a pale shade of lemon. The sun is sinking fast, a brilliant orange. A two-masted boat darkens off shore, heads bob and kiss in the shoulder-deep water.

Old men and women in swimsuits gossip at the water's edge. Towels are dragged back from the incoming tide. Everyone's waiting for sunset.

The sea is a black and primrose mosaic, the sky at the horizon the colour of toffee, a streak of orange pink cloud stretches itself thin.

The sun is three quarters below the horizon, the sky is tomato red. Fourteen seagulls fly north at a great height through deep blue air, and the first star shows.

A single light shines from one mast of the boat, a flag flaps from the other. Someone moves on the deck.

A man on the shore squats to photograph the boat against the sun's last rays

Voices mingle with the waves. Six seagulls fly north up the gulf. The tomato red sky turns first to marmalade, and then to no colour at all. People pack up their towels and children and empty drink bottles. Time to leave the black sea to itself.

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.