Today I met a woman at Randall's Bay

I saw her in the distance,
walking slowly, bent almost in two,
and occasionally reaching down and
pocketing something she had found.

I did not approach her because Tanc’s
canine exuberance intimidates people,
especially women.
Instead we turned and walked the other way
but our progress was slow as the nose explored
every smell, every abandoned sandcastle
and suddenly she was beside me.

I warned her that Tanc might jump up
but that he wouldn’t hurt her.
She held out her hand and he made a liar of me.
He sat, and then lying down he presented his
tummy to be tickled.
I have never seen him so docile
with a stranger.

We walked and talked and she showed me
the shells she had collected
– these for a pair of earrings -
this for a pendant - a piece of driftwood
to include in a picture.

As we walked she pointed
to a battered old van
sheltering beneath the trees.
“That is where I sleep” she said,
and then spreading her arms
to embrace the sand and sea and sky,
“But this – this is where I live”.

Her voice was deep and educated
and she was wearing Dior,
slightly worn, but Dior all the same.
She mentioned exciting work
and visits to La Scala
and the Metropolitan,
to Paris and Venice and London and Vienna.

She alluded to a grand house
beside the Yarra and another in Sandy Bay.
It had crossed her mind she said
to go back to Melbourne.
Her family pleaded often enough.
And then she shrugged and smiled
and flung her arms wide and said,
“but why would I give up this for money?