As I laze in the cooling evening breeze

Reclined on one of the many cane lounges that litter our old timber balcony

Enjoying dusk and a book I am yet to fully engage with

I am distracted by my neighbourhood

The palm trees west of me stand tall, silhouetted against the blue orange sky like skinny children with scruffy haircuts

A choir of crickets chirp frantically, with no pause

The tiny wrens cheep and chatter in the foliage beside me before fluttering away

Maybe sunset is birdie bed time and they have just finished stories and prayers with their kids

Against the now orange grey canvas a large spider rappels from roof to chair before shimmying quickly back up again

I wonder what he forgot

His next descent is bungee like, swinging wildly to the chair

I make a note to check that chair before I next sit in it

The grey orange fade of sky morphs to grey black

Street lights pop to action

A kamikaze moth nose dives into my forearm while a mosquito hovers waiting for his moment

I flick the moth away and the mosquito seems to get the message too

Jess, our neighbour’s black kelpie, barks once – false alarm

As the breeze slows to a wisp from across the road I hear laughter

Ours is a happy street

A large skink scuttles across the clear perspex roof, unconcerned by my presence

We have become friends over the 12 years of living here, each giving the other space

His family live in the wall cavity of our home meaning an occasional frantic rattling and clattering that often has visitors alarmed

But for us has simply become the domestic sounds of our co-habitants

They were here first

We respect that.

A car door slaps shut and a child laughs

There are no small children in our street but in the still of evening, unfamiliar sounds travel the suburb freely.

These are happy shrieks and giggles – pre bedtime, tickle fight chuckles

From the top end of the street another dog barks as if to clear his throat – again once is enough

As you were…

The tickle fight continues and tiny, joyful screams pierce the still night air

The window rattles as a skink makes his way home

Tyre noise becomes engine noise, becomes one door clanking shut as another neighbour returns home

There is the distant drone of a noisy muffler followed by

Another skink tiptoeing above my head, perhaps trying not to disturb me

Behind it all is the never ending hiss and whoosh of the ocean crashing on the shore then retreating again

The eternal voice of the sea making her constant presence felt among

The sounds of Hackney Way on a summer evening