5 images to take to bed

1. A leaf. Detached from the branch and landed in the gutter, alone but content. Against this black tarmac my bright face is something special, the leaf says to a black beetle bravely navigating the road. But beetles cannot speak so it does not reply and the leaf continues to enjoy its solitary position in the gutter, contemplating the ideals of difference and beauty. It has five points like a star and is warming to autumn, so turning yellow at its edges. It is not yet crisp with air and age, but would be in a few weeks time if it were not for the child.

2. A child. In red gum boots. Because no other slippers or shoes or sandals would do. He has neat hair, parted to the side in such a manner that he would probably get teased at school if it were not for his fantastic lunches, which he is wont to share, and he has a fine memory for a five-year-old, being able to recall the moment that he was born. He enjoys dancing and catching frogs, telling livid lies and then retrieving his innocence through the distribution of hugs. He is sly and meticulous. At the very moment we spy him, he is doing something he shouldn’t be doing.

3. A fence. The mundane picket in need of a coat, serving as a border of home and nothing more. On top of the fence is perched the child, his legs stretched apart as he balances each foot on a post. I’m the king of the castle and you’re the dirty rascal, he says to his wandering neighbour, Delilah, telling livid lies again. If you want to get a kiss you’re going to have to come all the way up here, he says. And he pouts his lips and manages a tiny dance of his hips as the young girl runs to the tree and places her doll in the shade, before gripping onto the fence to pull herself up and up and up. No way, says the child, you can’t come up here. You’re just a dirty rascal. He raises one red-booted foot off the post and knocks her on the forehead, makes her fall backwards.

4. A mother. She has wiry grey hair that makes her appear older than she is. Her casserole, the one she makes on Sundays, requires constant attention, but when she hears the wail she relinquishes the oven mitt and races outside. Across the street, Delilah is on her back, her neck tilted towards the ground, her face red and clenched. Above her, red boots are looking down. The mother checks quickly left and enters onto the road. The black crunches under her white nurse’s shoes and as she steps onto the footpath, a yellowgreen leaf raises its face before being pressed into the white sole. The mother scoops up Delilah, carries her home, does not forget etiquette, wipes her feet before entering, charges Delilah to the lounge, returns to the casserole, a little lumpy but salvageable.

5. A doll. She lies beneath the tree, has woken early with the sun. It has rained in the night and her yellow hair is soggy, her frilled pants in need of changing. Her name is Blossom and she is content to rest on the cold grass, to embrace autumn and its quirks.