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John Tranter  index

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.

Comments Last updated 12 October, 2003