Still Point

She rises when I am not looking, I glimpse her

fleeing from the mirror – her eyes

uncertain, caught between sage and wood

            what wood? you ask

Beech nut, skin-puncturing, womb-soft

burst open where the seed has fled

I glance away and she returns, solemn

among fallen leaves – autumn then

or slow sodden winter. She shivers, eases

her boot free of the mud. She is waiting

            what for? you ask

For the dream she was chasing to alight

on a stark branch that claws at steel sky;

for this face to look at her

those same eyes sunk in a delta

of laughter and sorrow.

Does she see me, so far in her future

or only the robin, bright flashing over sleek bark

sage-green, wood-brown

            I know that colour, you say

leaning closer in the fading light.

Last spring we found the cottage in the hills again

unchanged from years before when we adored the rough boards

laughed in chill draughts and were uncertain whether

curtains held back our light or the advancing night.

Newly single, you slept for days while I ministered your silence.

We watched the gum slow-peel on the sun-bright lawn

burnt umber and deep moss-green bark nestled

in crisp curls at the base, until stark and grey

the slender trunk glowed in the dawn

reaching to stroke the lightening sky.

Your voice poured, sudden and sure,

merging with the call of the currawong, you said

honeyeaters have lost their song

amidst a foreign flock they mimic what they hear –

are never heard for who they are.

Summer crept our way, and you grew stronger

we walked through caves, ran fingers along ancient strata

traced the slow, bright tears of stalactites

reaching for the ground.

You saw angels by torch light, claimed the stars

died aeons ago and wondered

where does night meet history?

The last afternoon, we watched black swans

drift in silent accord, their slow wake ruffled the sky

mirrored in the lake. As the ripples faded before

reaching the shore you said –

they mate for life

know each other’s shape and call

but do swans feel love?

Bury me in folds of paperbark

suede-soft it will be my winding sheet

lower me into eternal dark

make my bed where past and future meet.

Swaddle me in rich and fragrant loam

amidst the sightless creatures’ endless toil

I have no need of any other home

but find my rest within a house of soil.

My skin to dress next summer’s butterfly

my blood to colour bold chrysanthemums

my tears in dew drops will collect the sky

lit by fire of countless morning suns.

When everyone, but you, forgets my name

if there should be a flickering of pain

seek me in the embers and the flame

find me in the ocean and the rain.