dawn still comes, less of blessing, and more of a certainty she hasn’t learnt; still trails out barefoot into the lawn full of Bindis down to the gumtrees, where flecks of oyster shells still sit; the same her Nonna threw habitually, a pseudo pavements for Patsy’s Flat, a trail from the ocean preserve it, in brine each memory—immortalised; like the young girls finger prints; they sit there in pastels, blue tacked on the wall dawn has changed now, the gum inhales our memories; shedding itself of it’s skin his shells still shine, a mirage of opalescent purple
115
