Walking down Swanston St, I feel the urge to plant peach trees everywhere. I'd plant hundreds in Supre so that ripe, juicy peaches spilled out into the Mall. I'd scatter seeds all over the bluestone, so that peachy green shoots might sprout in the cracks.
All the filth and the apathy would be swept away by a wave of fruit, and when it all finished up, there would just be a beautifull sunlit garden, a man playing the dulcimer and the hoola hoop guy, spinning his hoops above a golden harvest of peaches.
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1 comment:
You sound like Coleridge. Except on more opium.
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