Summer in Byron Bay
The season is a damp dollar sign. A sign that the humidity is bearable but the traffic is not. A sign that the mould is barely tolerable and the mozzies won’t stop. When rivers swell and roads vanish beneath puddles—puddles so deep, if ducks landed they’d be relabeled ponds—when unrelenting nor-easterlies push carnivals of wind all summer long. When sandy beaches are blemished by bluebottles and floating trumpets embellish our footpaths, all mauve and miniature. When ripening papayas nourish and brushturkeys flourish in yesterday’s rubbish. When clouds of bats tarnish dragon fruit sunsets. When early down town is still quiet and stylish, and in the street a boozy scent mingles with that of espresso, when the aromas are all singed and overpriced and as heavy as damp dollar signs.