sweet jasmine pushes its hands through my helmet
clinging with strands of honeysuckle to my visor
suffusing with eucalypts as they intertwine themselves
in the arms of the wind
pulling me through suburbia
a soft tug on my sleeves, a gentle push
open within the outside, privy to an expansive space only accessible
on the rotating reaction caused by
igniting sparks as they pump breath
and blood up and down
whilst I move.
move along, curving round
tight bends, darting in and out
of streets with names like Howson, Grantham, Johnson, Rathedowne
the symbology of which means nothing to the land in which they are
paved across. A colonial signal of direction as I wend my way towards the Birrarung,
in search of wild sensations in the heart of asphalt and concrete.
Photo Credit to Josiah Sebregts, thank you.