It feels a world away.
This jagged rock face
the dry, bitter winds
whistling through thorny Rosehip and Mataguri
over tussocks of yellow moss.
Air so cool and fresh in my lungs that it
stings my nostrils and pinkins my cheeks.
This place, these shortened sunlight days,
could not be more in contrast
to the sticky heat of the bush.
Linen off the line that comes in never quite dry.
Ferns curled as Kora
dripping with condensation.
A constant plume of flying insects following everyone, swarming on the golden beaches.
Sand in my shoes, salt in my hair.
Hot, humid nights, staring at the ceiling, trying not to move.
Early, curtainless mornings with the sun rising into orange hue.
After a seemingly endless day, the sun drops slowly into the blue ocean.
Crumbling clay banks coming alive with glow worms.
The dull ache of tired bones after a long summer.
So different now, as I sit amid swathes of blankets and cushions,
curtains half drawn
log burner bellowing dry heat
watching the steam rise from a cup of tea.
I look at the mountains dusted in snow.
The lake, glass-like, reflects that very same sky.