Glow

The day has been hot, the day has been too much.

I stand outside the back door at dusk

and call the dogs.  There are not many things

in this world that glow, that are willing

to hold the light.  These gardenias,

ghostly against their dark green leaves;

the waxing moon, a day more than half

and heading for full.  They catch each other

in the gloom, seem to be signalling something

too subtle for my eyes.  Here I am.

Here am I, too.  Roger that.  Beyond

this faint recognition, I really don’t know.

The horses’ tails mark out time, a backbeat

on living skin to shoo the last of the flies.

Lisa Brockwell lives on a rural property near Byron Bay. Her first collection, Earth Girls, published by Pitt Street Poetry in 2016, was commended in the Anne Elder Award. See <www.lisabrockwell.com>.