December
parks its machine all day where crumpled banksia cones parallel stranded kelp.
The surfboards arrive on chunky vehicles. Occupants change into wetsuits on
warm roadway. Chinese in Brits vans sail past the line-up. A butterfly bobs
across. Families in sensible cottons and cabbage hats find ti-tree shade for
their town car. Campervans in mock-hippie obey parking restrictions. Surf haze
and cicada phrases drift over the sunglass set, looking for lunch. Workmen down
from fire-affected areas park where “that’s good enough.” Picnickers unpack the
boot, slap on, but the heat may be unkind. By evening they’ll all be someplace
else.
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