I do not trust this weather. It’s warm. In April. Inland Ballarat, off Burnie’s rugged coast, all the places it shouldn’t be, really.
I should be in my hoodie, my uggs with soles torn and hanging down like tongues.
Writing this, I should be in the one room of our cottage where the heater works, the room I am sure to remain trapped in for the next six months.
No. Shorts are still worn.
Swans still hold up traffic around lakes.
Pubs, wine bars are crammed with bustle.
The pop of champagne corks can be caught from my neighbours’ house.
They sit in their back garden, enjoying old jazz and arias until the white dots of stars prick the dark blue sky.
Bubbles float above and over their fence, below and to where Little Mate hurtles head first down his slide.
Scurrying around trees and bushes, uncovering the chocolate eggs his uncles and aunties hid.
Watermelon smeared in tomato sauce on his plate.
The weekend past, many headed to houses on the coast.
Big bowls of pasta sated hordes of ravenous children, treasures or trinkets at markets were claimed.
And in quiet moments, books nourished mind and soul.
Those on New South Wales’ north coast might have cleaned up after recent floods, but they had a long weekend of some peace.
Chinese dragons danced through the heart of Bendigo.
Bolting teenagers conquered Stawell’s great Gift.
Leaves have curled, browned and fallen; farmers wait for their pastures to receive promised April rain.
The rain might fall now. Yet the dogged heat holds in the mid-20s.
We’re enjoying it, while we can.