Paul J Penton – Songwriter

Its swivels back and forth like a clowns head at a sideshow stall, a steady sweep like a flight of pelicans to the left then a yacht sailing to the right. Despite its best efforts it isn’t helping much. The humidity is heavy as a road construction roller, grinding me down. No sheets, legs hanging out at odd angles, yep, it’s one of those nights where the heat is trapped in the house and the outside temp has hardly dropped at all.

What we need is one of those bi-polar Melbourne cold fronts to arrive.  I just think I’ll whip one up from somewhere down near the South Pole and let it drift like a lazy cloud, an icy pole for my body.  My tongue is hanging out to lick it, this idealised Southern change, not those hot dry scratchy  winds from the red center kicked in on a swirl of dust and top soil, no, the cool Southern winds that have picked up moisture along the way on their journey. 

If it arrives there’s  going to be a Titanic clash in the sky with the warm air meeting the cold , they’ll bristle up against each other like deer fighting for mates that you see in  ‘in the wild’ documentaries , they’ll clash and the the sky will growl and one of them will go whimpering off into the distance still shaking its fist in forks of lightning  and mumblings of low rolling thunder. There’ll be rain- not too tropical, but a quick volley of tears- maybe even hail! It’ll play ping pong on the metal roof in hollow heaviness and then be gone. The house will still smell of the heat, the trapped humidity that has seeped into walls and door frames escaping, the house sighing after carrying the weight so long, and we, who give thanks for the temporary salvation of the fan – will get on again and forget the pain until next time.

So now I lie in hope of that change- not that the weatherman has said it’s coming, but I can feel it in my bones, or maybe that’s just a flower of hope trying to outweigh the groan in my soul. Maybe Air conditioning would be a better option…….