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Travel and Food

Over Easy Dreaming

Spellbound, I watched my Waffle Queen with practised ease,

Working her early morning shift.

Treading the oil lake slick through a boated speck of light,

She cast out from her hip a black swirled skirt, a magic trick

Floating before her, fanned with a wrist flick.

A wondrous, Reuben, Joan of Arc,

Gleaming, short-stubbed pistons from a beating heart.

Truth ringing through the breasted plate,

With each required working pivot, turn and angled weight.

And like the Waffle Queen that’s steaming home

With wheelchair turns and tannoyed tones,

She still lands me an easy miracle.

Breaking the surface of my dreams,

Serving my shoreline with a deft, light touch.

Before my very eyes it seems –

Eggs over easy, ever so easy, with smiles on the side.


I drank her syruped, southern drawl, with my coffee cupped fingers

And even now 35 years on the taste still lingers,

And my eyes still smart,

Recalling the simple beauty of her working art.

Noarlunga South Australia
Fishing Boats

The Table Turns

From dusk to later on - the Island settles

Fills with special echoes - seabirds cry, safe dogs bark

The sea’s breath laps the land

Re-sounding clear and sweet on every corner of St Mary’s


Built forms, squares of light, just a few left after midnight

Stars awake, a lighthouse blinks on black ink

The sea’s breath shouts the land

For sea comes alive when the land sleeps


In dead of night, through the small hours - the Island finds itself

A boated land, cut down to size

The shorelines constant churn,

Fuelled by wind and tide - the table turns.


 Breakfast at La Yedra 2

They stand at the bar

The trucker’s first stop

Silently sip themselves

Awake with a shot

Café sombre grande 

Café hombre grande


Rich strong expresso

Sun-steamed milk

Well-dressed machismo

Class in a tall glass

Lemon Tree

Moonshine to Sunshine

I must arise and go now and get my fresh baked bread

At six am in the moonshine, cold hill stone for my bed

As the rain stops, through my caffeine shot

Eucalyptus comes alive

With a blue glow as I watch there, bark and road combine

Now my breath hot, crust crunch, contented silence finds

Bird song on a night morn with the warm bread deep inside

*    *.    *

Moving down the hillside he zigzagged through his

lemon grove

Below his feet, the breath of sleep, amongst the green

and yellow

Before my door, a plastic bag, settled on its haunches

Swollen like melons there were twelve of them

Malaga lemons, big as the sky

I squeeze them dry, over fish and oil

Manna from heaven and heaven lies beneath the sky, in lemons

At a furniture retailer


Start at the end, end at the start

Leave with a smile, leave with a fart

Whatever you do don’t go alone.

And at the end, sip sip revenge

50-cent coffee cup rules you can bend

Café con leche, hot chocolate, triple expresso

My cup runneth over

Coffee Beans

Breakfast at Denny’s

They say it promises to be the hottest day of the year, but inside Denny’s,

Polished strips of cold black night bed down against the window blinds grey edge

In the deep slated, thick sliced, silence, 

Seated on leatherette the look and colour of a rib burn off, 

A seasoned nightshift pause  to marinate awhile. 


Thoughts form to take on strength and flavour then scramble into light, eggs over easy talk, 

Rising pancaked and oversized to a sunburst of fruit-filled laughter … 

I’m full; but as time slips through my straw 

A sad, conditioned lemonade chill fills the air 

Until expresso words pour out  “D’ya need more coffee over there?” 


I drink pure 100% integrity, rich and thick. 

It clears my mind for the long day shift. 

As I do, something or someone beyond Denny’s and the Syracuse skyline 

Also tastes the real thing, shudders, then turns over for a final bite of low-fat sleep

Night peels away to expose the pale skin of early morning.

Breakfast at La Yedra I

Starts in a door slat thin Manzanilla light, offset by elegance and quiet.

Single shirt skins, white on tan

The leathered look of Sunday’s best


Below the waist all polished black

The bar - the man – the space between.

Then Spain rolls in a barrelled bus, spilling a thick, sweet crowd

A full, dark hilled Oloroso.

A standing sherry glasshouse of mad Oboes

Demanding “servicio” from their barman maestro.

A salted matador, full turned and milled.

Dancing tapas bowls of salsa de tomat with battoned bread,

Circle, oiling and fuelling overhead.

A bubbling bull life down below.

But the crowded sound soon falls to ground

And a heady, full-lipped flamenco fades away.

A retreating bus, a rolling, stoned aficionado,

Feet stomping, full basso humming.

Till only distant hill songs, slow cooking the warm memories

And soft echoing down wired waves,

Bring Spanish soundings and a sense of loss

Through lines that death throes flap,

And trail track, the muffled music man.

A singing Rayburn, wheeled and heated,

And leaving La Yedra’s head, buzzing!

But body mouled, shelled, sucked dry.

A rash of café latche cups

With white throats cut and sugared tongue butts,

Littered, within a cold and wood wormed Albert.

The dummy’s box

His master’s voice long gone.


Ends in a shuttered huddle, and a mind bent double

And buzzing with classical reflections,

Inside a boned and drying fino.

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