Valerie Everett Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers Centre
It won’t be long now.
For this anonymous void.
Once inked on a parchment plan of a town nestled by a river shore.
Plotted on the grid, sans élégance, yet essential on life’s underside.
For carting away refuse and rubbish.
Today it is shadowed by skyscrapers.
Singled out as a scar on a porcelain skin.
A flaw to be face-lifted in a grand city scheme.
Somewhere an urban designer is imagining.
Sketching its potential.
A laneway revitalised with quirky cafes, creative industries and cool, funky finishes.
Its status elevated to lanescape!
But for now it lays an unpolished gem.
Where few footsteps fall.
Mainly by wanderers in search of solitude and walls beckoning with a bold, brick canvas.
So perfect for aerosol art.
For swirling creations.
Or spot-jocking or tagging in shocks of colour.
For a laneway, like this, is a wanderer’s dream.
Exhibiting something extraordinary.
Like a cameo appearance, fleeting.
When winter rains fall.
And droplets cling.
When thunderous clouds burst.
And puddles swell.
Into a patchwork of pools linked by trickles as delicate as lace.
Creating a spectacular gallery.
Of wall art mirrored on puddles that pave the laneway from end to end.
Visually, a masterpiece!
Where liquid mirrors are shimmering diamonds, exquisite in their majesty.
But the double display deliquesces as spring’s sunshine warms the lane.
When pools fade from their fringes.
Floating reflections seep into the grit.
Vaporise from the grunge.
Droplet by droplet.
Then all too soon the mirrors are gone.
Leaving only the bricks to bear witness to wanderers’ thoughts.
With luck the spectacle will appear again.
Here, in this hollow or another, half-hidden, in the throb of the city’s heart.
Next year, after the seasons turn and winter is bestowed, once more.
Unless time is up for such laneways of old.
Inevitably, like the liquid mirrors, they will vanish!