Fall in St Kilda Beach
The cold, sombre, purple skies of fall
Are memories precious to all now.
The screaming of children playing ball
Replaced by gulls foraging for chow.
The white capped surf that covers all
And crashing waves that dig and plough.
No crusted bread torn and fed by hand
Or peanut-butter mixed with sand.
White silver scars pattern each dark cloud
A very different sky from a summer’s day.
Gone the ghetto blasters booming loud
And the screaming tyres as teenagers play.
I do not miss the tents and noisy crowds
It's now the perfect place to spend a day
Wintery rain from the forming shrouds
Makes the road a varnished black highway.