The harbour arm beckons us with a chorus line of lights. A rainbow flag unfurls from a crane. Now let the show begin!
Candy pink limo stretches round sweeping sands. Clubbers who carry a condom jump the queue while a barman juggles sunrise sling and sheets.
From the wings fly para gliders in to a sky of shimmering light Turner may have stroked. Kite surfers spin glimpsing the whites of the wind farm.
Christians raise their voices in the heat of the afternoon and their amen harmonises with a horny saxophone playing with the people sipping chilled wine in the square.
A seashell lady gives you the nod when a fresh batch of fish is frying or tea is being served at the Walpole Bay Hotel on the geranium terrace at the top of the hill.
Backstage in the old town, local artists hum. Staining glass moulding clay wiring wrapping wreaths bouquets.
Beyond sandcastles she’s preparing to unveil her house of installations and oils hoping high speeding trains will then draw art lovers and the curious.
Curtains now on a flood of gold, streaky pinks, the old hugging couple on a bench. He whispers in Polish of her beautiful eyes and they let the next bus go by.
Fiona Thomson
31 March 2010
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