Lynley Edmeades

Light Here, in fenceless New Zealand Sunday’s are for mowing lawns, long walks to the cafe for breakfast, brunch, where tea-strainers have been replaced by espresso machines and coffee judged by its topographical traceability. Retirees talk about climate change like it’s a memo on the fridge door. About e-books, they say things like: you’ve got to think about the pollution and you don’t even need to turn on the light.    

Lynley Edmeades

La Strada Roads are never busy here – the further south you go, the less narrative you see. It’s autumn – going south means gold. A gold that will soon turn to just tree. I stop to visit an old friend, her new baby. Another place, a new couple – I drink wine and relish in their getting-to-each-other bliss; Too much of both, not enough of this. Next town, a poet friend – he’s coming down off an acid bender, and I’m wearing the wrong shoes. We find a quiet place to talk about form, structure, Wellington, Dunedin. I hear“Lynley Edmeades”

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