Ruminations and recipes from a small kitchen in a big city.


The beach.

There was not even the hint of a breeze and the soft May sun was warm.

We walked to the beach, down the street where the moonah stretches up and over to form an arched tunnel with a light at the end that is sky. And, past the light at the end of the tunnel, ships pass by; and they look like they are sailing along Point Nepean Road, because you cannot see the water from there.

The bay was a mirror and the sand was warm. Twelve or thirteen black swans were paddling about in the shallows. I've never seen them here before; I suppose they were en route somewhere and taking a rest.

William played around on the sand and we read papers while Thomas flapped in his pram and then Tracy took him down to the water and dipped his tiny toes at the edge and first he gave a kind of shudder at the cold chill and then he shrieked for joy.

The beach was quiet. It was late morning.

I swept William up in my arms said come on, let's go out into the water. We walked out for maybe two hundred metres and the water was only up to my thighs. I turned around and we looked towards the shore. It shimmered in the haze, a strip of yellow sand and a dark line of trees. Houses rose out of the trees and hung on the hill staring at the sun and the water. Cars made a lazy buzz along Point Nepean Road.

Then back to shore. It was time for lunch.


Paz said...

That sounds like a good morning spent. ;-)


kitchen hand said...

Paz, it was a beautiful morning; more like spring than almost-winter.

Spike said...

Excellent descriptive language there.