days

Early music on josh’s tinny radio. Surf’s regular heartbeat. Bushes outside, one flowering red, one white. They look like valentines. Mum said that backpackers once died, eating kebabs strung onto the oleander twigs – I find this out only after janu and I have picked some poisonous flowers for the table.

Janu and griff playing together, as usual, like messy angels.  Everything is play. Clothes pegs are baby bats, hanging on the xmas tree. We collected bags of tumble-weed from the beach – grass seeds shaped like stars. We tossed them high on the tree. They stuck, blonde seed stars.

There are sticky handprints Maia height on the glass doors.