On my side of the harbour bridge, this morning, fat dew drops dance in bright sunshine. Birds are throaty with glee as they perch on a wonky weathervane at the petanque clubhouse next door. Others swoop and glide in sun-drenched, drunken abandonment. Nests forgotten in moments of bliss.
In contrast, the northern side across the harbour is shrouded in fine mist and echoes a forgotten world. The outlines of three skyscrapers stand sentinel, mimicking three wise men from long ago. All is still over there. A steady stream of cars and vans and trucks crawls over the bridge and disappears into the mist. I wonder what becomes of them? An easterly breeze points the two flags on top of the bridge's highest arc out to sea as serious white clouds converge overhead.
I have a desire to run from this sunny side over and into the mists of the soundless, still world that northern shore promises. And hide away for a while or become someone else. My heart beats – slow, slow and I feel the breath through my body – slow, slow. The clouds turn ashen, scowling, determined as they snuff out the sun. Suddenly, gleeful birds silence and their aerobatics cease as they gather themselves and fly sedately to their nests.
The white mist over there acquires an uninviting, dirty pallor. I think I'll brew some tea and go back to bed.