S (September)

South, where windscreen morning unfreezes in the planet’s most liveable timezone and drips onto our schoolday baggage as through semi-built parts of our city we travel, imagining melaleuca coastlines facing Antarctica. September, when stripy lorikeets sight the teensiest flower shifts and woop-swoop, air floods everywhere defying all laws that would explain air – something like that! Saturday too far away, or Sunday behind yet before us with its easing of pain – they remain and beckon, in between the hours we must what we must, all things being equal, which is to say unequal, snaking their way inexplicably through our workaday senses.