A poem about place and values |
I saw her in the distance, walking slowly, bent almost in two, and occasionally reaching down and pocketing something she had found. I did not approach her because Tanc’s canine exuberance intimidates people, especially women. Instead we turned and walked the other way but our progress was slow as the nose explored every smell, every abandoned sandcastle and suddenly she was beside me. I warned her that Tanc might jump up but that he wouldn’t hurt her. She held out her hand and he made a liar of me. He sat, and then lying down he presented his tummy to be tickled. I have never seen him so docile with a stranger. We walked and talked and she showed me the shells she had collected – these for a pair of earrings - this for a pendant - a piece of driftwood to include in a picture. As we walked she pointed to a battered old van sheltering beneath the trees. “That is where I sleep” she said, and then spreading her arms to embrace the sand and sea and sky, “But this – this is where I live”. Her voice was deep and educated and she was wearing Dior, slightly worn, but Dior all the same. She mentioned exciting work and visits to La Scala and the Metropolitan, to Paris and Venice and London and Vienna. She alluded to a grand house beside the Yarra and another in Sandy Bay. It had crossed her mind she said to go back to Melbourne. Her family pleaded often enough. And then she shrugged and smiled and flung her arms wide and said, “but why would I give up this for money? |