Garema Place

At night Garema Place is

rubber on corrugated cobble. Spokes up against the stars. Smoky aphorisms, phantasms of friend and lamplight and trees shot through with thin red fruit.

Conversations drift away like a cold shower. Riding in and out again.

Garema Place is

a thing sharp and lucid. Sitting lizard-like upon the base of my spine draped across my ribs in acid nostalgia.

Aching. Remembering and washing away.

Garema Place is

an escape at least for a while.

Three bikes on cobble. I feel a centring of myself like planets coming into orbit. Winter crawls in as past crawls into present and things, once done, never to be undone are merely framed and remembered. Fruits, accepted and eaten, not for tomorrow but for the day after that and after that again.

Things once simple are now entangled beyond belief. But I’ve seen enough to know that the horizon is just over the next hill.