La Perouse

La Perouse

We’d reached the edge.
It was peaceful in a sad way.

Out on the freeway I’d held his waist
tightly at first, playing up to
the power trip, before loosening
my grip – captive yet absent.

Brides bobbed like marionettes
on the cliffs of La Perouse,
the sky silver. Awkward in oversized
leather, I sat on a bald mound
of dark earth, windswept by litter
and sand. He came back
with ice-cream – the vestiges
of an attempt at the parent/child
dynamic. It tasted like kilojoules.

Pajeros crammed with screaming
children circled the car park.
Dogs urinated on bins. Happiness,
like yellow paint, obscured
all subtlety. Bridesmaids
hitched their dresses, resting
their mouths in-between smiles.

We wobbled back onto his
Ducati, disappointed
by the landscape’s aptness.
The rocks knew the score –
didn’t they, Heathcliff?
High up, I hugged his
chest as we sped
across a curved horizon.

Somewhere in eternity’s
filing cabinet, this moment
is crystalline. Petrol
and carbon monoxide.
Black crows in the cooling air.
A light rain, gossiping a storm.

In our minds, only rumbling.

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