Goin' fishin'

Winter was gentle today; a balmy 15C was met after the morning's Icarian fog rose. For some, certainly for me, this was an opportunity to swoon in the light and allow my cut and unamused body to recalibrate its verve. Despite my preferred willingness to sojourn into the Bush (which I had planned a week or so earlier) and tackle the roughstone tracks crunching the leaf clutter underfoot, I had to settle for the Beach, not such a bad thing by concession. Though I am missing the Eucalypts and the wattles, which by all accounts, have begun their earnest outbreak of gold and yellow. Perhaps, next weekend?

Armed with a couple of books, thermos of coffee, chocolate bars, camera gear and a radio to listen to the Aussie rules Footy matches, I embarked along the level and safe foreshore near Williamstown. My biggest threat only being errant Joggers dubbed by their headphones and constantly watching their wrist strapped heart rate monitors. The plan was an easy jaunt back to familiar Altona, roughly 8 kilometres/5 miles walking westwards deliberately into the Sun. I would like to have a dollar (or a book or a chocolate bar or a bourbon) for every time I have completed this walk over the years; it would amount to a small fortune, happily. Yet, every time I undertake the walk I see something new or am struck with amazement. Often the most extraordinary things are those nearest. For example, I saw a Honeyeater - one of my favourite birds - supping the nectar from a lone Wattle tree that was celebrating the onset of August with its time to thrill. I stood, quietly, at a modest distance, savouring the occasion. The Honeyeater was labouring with its devotion and getting a reward, a reward that is beneficial to both fauna and flora. It was an assuring sign of upcoming spring, which will summon its calendar presence in a few weeks. Too, I saw those welcomed foreigners, the Cherry Blossoms budding with their pinks, mauves, and whites. I could see the small, nationalistic, orchids peeking up from the soil; their promise is yet to come. The clouds too seemed different, more aloof than the intimate ones of low winter. Fortunately, from their aloofness comes shape and colour and the dialogue they conduct with light. Even lycra clad cyclists, in their uncomplimentary tightness of cloth, seemed colourful and in place. It was a fine day of vita nuova sighs - those oaths you utter of relief when the wintry siege has for the moment, possibly, gone across the Tasman to annoy our New Zealand friends.

Out on Port Phillip Bay, where I could see to the truncated forever of the horizon, sailing Boats adorned the water with their spinnakers blossoming. Closer to shore, some rascal Casters under cigarette smoke hazes, were trying their luck from the surety of small Jettys. Other Line-droppers were bib bobbing on the pallid swell of an outgoing Tide trying the same lottery. Finding a picnic table amongst a riband of pioneer grass hugging the sand spillovers, and soaking in the Sun's healing, I noticed a Fisherman with a red beanie huffing and puffing as he rowed away from the shore. His 'nonetheless aluminium boat' laden with fishing tackle and harbouring 'hopes' of unseen marines not to get away. The scene made a statement to the day for me without chaste. I sat at this table for hours not by distinction but without shadows.

Reaching Altona by late afternoon, I sensed the wintry respite was soughing. The light had once more become austere and the evensong wind was reacquainting itself with the sulkiness that follows meridians out of deep southern parallels. A sensible coat grew around my shoulders and a scarf became a sometimes around my neck. Even a pancake cap found its way onto my greying follicles. The day had drawn and there was no defiant sunset near six O'clock in search of an admirer. But, I was content enough and the body at ease after its medical week.

some post production through Photoshop Elements