Pressed Eucalyptus

and swallows me whole. With a cool embrace,

the scent of old leather finds a chink in my armour.

A vision of you sneaks in. Tanned legs barely covered 

by denim cut-offs--buttermilk thoughts

of caramel ice and sunshine.

 

Cicada-song jolts sleep from the room. I wake

to twilight's warm, mottled hues. 

Time

        moves

                   slowly, 

                              my skin breathes out. 

Freshly-cut lawn flavours scant breeze 

creeping past the screen to tickle my mind. 

In the depths of the couch, my sleeping back 

has unwittingly found your old sketchbook.

 

Lazy river Sundays seep from pages
as dry as memories. Moments and scenes
captured in charcoal-scratched stasis,

your hand always as sure as your eye.
A pressed-flower fallen from our Red River Gum
lies between pages. I slam the book shut
and it slides away. You would have smiled
to see how deeply the paper cut.

Ryan Stone