Long Way From Home by Karl Powell

The view from her bedroom is brilliant... high up, her window looks down on the city. The curling river is flat and silent. Everything is so still beyond her pane of glass. But there is movement everywhere. Everywhere I look lights are moving. A line of headlights move along the river's foreshore. So much blurs. A glow around each street lamp hangs in the damp winter air. Like chalk dust, low watt emission. In the river, little pin pricks of colour flash in the thick darkness; reds and greens. Blinking coloured lights. Must be for the boats and last ferry home. Even the Bell Tower has lights that change. These fade into each other - purples turn green, becoming blue, sailing daydreams into the evening indigo. Over the Narrows Bridge trails of fairy lights drive into the city. Set by set, two by two. Lights moving and moving. Everything moving. All direction. Everywhere you look there are lights. A great flash lights up the room. There in the reflection of a black night sky I can see her naked body, blonde curls and white tiles. Something to keep out the cold. She switches off the light and darkness returns to the CBD.