Creative city

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Before dawn the air outside imitates my fridge inside,

Cold.

Morning light appears contesting the fog that had swallowed every street and house.

Soon the sun has won and is beaming with ostentatious pride,

Throwing down its heat and making all of us sweat under.

Jumper is thrown off.

T-shirt and shorts only now.

Changing my order at St Ali from a flat white to cold-press.

The kids are about to cry out for the fifth time, “I’m hot”,

When sweeping over the horizon like Carlton’s midfield on a good day,

Come the cumulonimbus,

Testing every man and woman’s canopy of nylon taffeta.

Rain descends by the tram full and steam rises off the bitchumen road back to heaven.

Beaded sweat morphs into droplets of rain.

The scent of wet hair, wet clothes, wet everything follows us home.

The meteorological combat is over as the cooling breeze

Overwhelms the furnace like air.

Weatherman is dumbfounded again.

Tourists confused.

Melbournians amused.

Another day in paradise comes to an end.

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