new zealand electronic poetry centre


John Tranter 


Lavender Ink

Look, there she is: Miss Bliss, dozing
in the shade of a Campari umbrella. Beside her
a book – something brilliant: Callimachus,
let’s say, printed in an elegant Venetian type –
half-read, with the most alarming
     metaphors to come,

and a glass of gin, a cool dew
blooming on the crystal, the air
kissing her skin
and the neighbour’s hi-fi playing
‘I Can’t Get Started’ in a distant
     corner of the afternoon.

The yachts on the water.
     The tinkle of ice.

I’m thinking of you, reinventing Sydney
a thousand years from now, and not
getting it quite right: missing the
delicate hangover, the distant murmur
of the city, the scent of this ink
     drying on the page.

Last updated 12 October, 2003