Talking while running,
joggers drop fragments of plot;
a husband, job, daughter,
the struggle, the boss, the lover;
you my best friends,
huffing these steeping paths
sweating for me.
And the cyclists, talking while riding;
about races won and lost
and the various moving parts of a bicycle
while they spin across the city skyline.
Cockatoos and parrots raze the air
cracking open the hearts of flowers;
the river below so huge and tremulous,
clouds seem to break inside it.
Through darkening tuart trees
I hear the spin of tyres,
cutting up the park
mapping it with light.
by Nandi Chinna.