There are no signs really, thrusting their heads like seals above whitecaps to look around sleekly or in lazy colonies on marker buoys clearly visible but diving now and then to catch a fish beneath the sun splashed water. Signs don’t behave that way waiting to be discovered or inviting play with the eyes and the minds of observers who have found the trick of angles and light. Real signs come like trucks out of side streets unable to brake, seen only in crowded milliseconds, pointing to nothing but themselves. Let’s not read signs but rather live like children in a tyre swing rising up to take in broad backyard vistas –smoking barbecues and dogs, broken windowed garages, spoutings filled with leaves, kids climbing trees, the toddler with the snaking garden hose flouting water restrictions. One great swing after another and the downward arc to garden beds we’ve made, plants we’ve grown and accidental snow peas sprung from pea straw, our tyre-rope see-saw despite gravity and physics will carry us up again beyond the known horizon to somewhere without hows or whys without the wayward arrows and misleading lines of signs.