Remember those posters.

© Wenee Yap

If tomorrow was the last day

Of my brief, bliss inkblot life

I would wake up naked

Beside my lover in the blue hours and love, make

Before breakfast. During, and after

Once more? yes, more.

Meander by the back-alleys that maze to the city

By ten

Hand in hand

To watch the Sunday box-kites take flight

And the skywriters write

Love vows and brand names of shoes

I might buy

As the Central Station clock strikes eleven

I'd have tea and scones by the ponds

Of the rain-puddles

Huddled overnight from a lost storm

That blew through

En route to the South, to the Pacific

My lunch would be grand:

Cheese, crackers and toast

Red wine, a sip, a gift

Uncorked for the cork to leap

In hyperbole arc to the far side

Of Hyde Park

Distressing pigeons in the midst of lovesong

As the sun fell from view I'd

Sample chocolate - Belgian and Swiss

Ten dollars apiece

From the Food Hall below as it closes

By the flood of families

Home-bound for supper

Dinner at seven. Sumptuous.

French? No, Italian

Where all the waiters read Specials

You ask for encore - not for the food but the song in their voices

Fish, seared tender.

Lemon and coriander

Mash in blended cream butter

Mmmm.

Again wine, and fine conversation

About Chechnya and the oncoming zombie apocalypse

The distant of end of times

Delayed to 2014 from 1999.

As once more the blue hours close in

We'd walk where the shore hugs the Harbour

Music wafting like the sea in the breeze

Opera from the House

Jazz saxophonist, old Ella Fitzgerald

His notes on the wind like the scent of the sea

As if a taste left to linger

Or a kiss.

Til dawn our toes would dangle

Tips to dip in the river flow

As fresh current sinks to salt depth

And rumoured sharks roam

Hand in hand

Cheek to cheek

Beneath open skies that arc without end

That turn blue the chambers of the sea.