Telling secrets

In the city
when I stay up late
sitting alone,
working on my balcony
into the night
(which is not often)
I listen to the bugs,
and the bats,
and the crickets,
and the possums crawling
along the gables.
It's not so bad.

But beneath it all,
(even though we live
with quiet neighbours
in a quiet suburb
on a quiet road)
is the sound of traffic:
The white noise of cars,
the hoot and rumble
of faraway trains,
the soft whir
of helicopters.
It's not so bad.

But it's there.
So in the city,
when I stay up late,
sitting alone,
working on my balcony
into the night,
in my head
I morph those sounds
into something new
something different;
Into the sea.

So alongside the sounds
of the bugs
and the bats
and the crickets
and the possums,
I imagine
the sound of cars
into foam,
of faraway trains
into sets of
breaking waves,
of whirring helicopters
into the wind.
I turn the city sounds
into something oceanic.
It's not so bad.