And do you know what dew is?
But a droplet that escapes the breath of the night,
after being intoxicated from the drunkenness of lovers it
hosts, it is but the hangover stain left on the trees
leaves in the morning, to etch moss tattoos on it’s branches.
Today I drove through suburbs I used to play in and grew up in during my teenage years.
As I got out of the car at one of the stops I was taken by the sound of trees rustling. They rustled differently. Their sound was familiar, I’d recognise it even if I were seas away.
They smelt different, of wattle and gum, of red bush and other Australian natives, I could smell them all.
Here I am, an Australian born ethnic, bathing in the glory of the only land I could honestly call home despite my strong ancestral inclinations to the far eastern desert sands, despite my ironic longing to go there.
I had a moment with eyes lowered to the ground to give rise to my ears and nose instead. I continued to listen to the different way the trees brushed each other, with each brush, a rubbing off of the aforementioned fragrances.
I smelt those fragrances as well as the water droplets from lawn sprinklers, in mid air being caught in the winds tango with the trees, a pot love mixed with the fresh cut grass and the dew left from last nights encounter. Even the cicadas sang a different tune, one of contentment and love, no matter the sweltering heat.
I smelt it and heard it all, and at that moment I thought about dew, what an unappreciated beauty. Suddenly my mind was flooded with interpreting it accordingly as the fragrant exhalation of mystic drunkenness of the night, a salty moisture from the pangs of separation the night releases as the embrace of lovers wanes, cradling itself in sorrow until the next evening.