Back at the farm, where a flock of galahs flies overhead, bellies storybook pink. Back from a few days in Sydney, where long grey greasy footpaths string the way beside roads, where a tall man covered in sores wearing a lank dress walks, scattering neatly dressed woman with clutched handbags as they emerge from the Greek centre.
Back at the farm where black sapote flowers have appeared for the first time on our tree, grown from seed – the flowers turning into tiny fruit, little squashed balls with petals that come around and touch at the front like origami gifts.
Where the night smells of lemon verbena and scented geranium, washed into the air by a sudden storm, thunder booming and thin lines of lightning sparking through the sky.
Marilyn Ryman said:
My Sapotes are producing a great number of fruit. Unfortunately the little animals around here love them, and, as much as I try, I have not eaten one yet. They leave them, like myself, until they are beautifully ripe and then overnight, they are gone! Ah well a new Sapote tree in my next home and try again!
Our black sapote came from the seed of one we bought when we went to Cairns, years ago. We bought the sapote when it was green and carried it with us on our travels north for days, letting it ripen. Martin promised it would be wonderful. I’d never seen them before. Finally it was black and looked disgusting. Martin opened it. It still looked disgusting inside – grey and flabby – but we each took a tiny mouthful – revelation! Chocolate mousse in a fruit! Enjoy your new home Marilyn!