The worn, russet couch opens its maw
and swallows me whole. A cool embrace and scent
of old leather finds a chink in my mind’s armour.
A vision of you sneaks in. Tanned legs barely covered
by denim cut-offs wake buttermilk thoughts
of caramel ice and sunshine.
Cicada-song jolts sleep from the room. I wake
into twilight’s warm, mottled hues. Time moves
slowly, my skin breathes out. Freshly-cut lawn
flavours the breeze trickling through the fly screen
to nudge my mind. In the depths of the couch, my sleeping back
has unwittingly found your old sketchbook.
Lazy river Sundays seep from pages, as dry as the memories.
Moments and scenes captured in charcoal-scratched stasis–
your hand always as sure as your eye. A pressed-flower fallen
from our Red River Gum is caught between pages. I slam the book
shut and it slides away. You would have smiled to see
how deeply the paper cut.