Mary Street

The power lines on Mary Street are buried,
apparently always have been,
so the street is densely lined
with Moreton Bay Figs.

I don’t know how old they were;
60s? 70s? A Chinese couple,
parked somewhere between
Suffer the little children to come unto me,
and my lunch.

Because of this, the street is like a vaulted hall –
the figs forming fornices of foliage,
alabaster columns ancient and greying –
except that you can still see the sky.

Because of this, I wondered
at a young Spring’s warm afternoon,
after thousands of days, some good, some bad;
a life built together;
asleep in a car with mouth and window slightly open,
warm, with a lover, and the world left behind.

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