Surrounded by red desert and blue ocean,
the city realises, and suffers
the magnified full impact
of the sweltering southern afternoon sun's
harsh, reflective rays.

While I seek the illusive comfort of shade,
sitting simmering in sweaty stickiness,
a vibration, a long reverberating thrum from within, rises,
unites with the oppressive weight of extrinsic heat
and wends its way into the very expanse of reality,
insidiously dulling my senses,
rhythmically sounding, echoing through my being.

Eyelids, too heavy, droop, flicker, close.
Slow-witted, head leaden
I veer towards the edge of sleep unconsciousness.
Floating in warm, lethargic air,
gently tumbling through a sea of pulsating energy,
drifting through space and time...

... lazing, sprawled on her front veranda steps,
breathing in the thick, sweet scent of my grandfather's roses,
while the sticky buzzing of a blowfly drones
in rhythm to the distant sound of the occasional tone of traffic
from the highway, half a mile away.

I smell long-forgotten grandma scent - apple pie and lavender.
I hear her murmuring, slowly, softly,
'Won't you buy my pretty flowers?'
to the cadence of gentle, soothing, clinking,
as she lackadaisically, with straw, stirs
lemon and ice cubes
in a tall glass of gin and tonic
(for pure medicinal purpose)
and, as if from the base of a deep, dense fog, I dimly hear her say,
"Well, here he is. He's early today."
And Fremantle's own Doctor of renown breezes in,
this great physician's breath bringing
cooling ointment from the Antarctic...

... to caress my thirsty skin
and rouse me from my illusion,
as I open my eyes and wake to today,
where she is not.