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>.
