I sit on the porch
and look at the orange evening,
unfolding like a collage of memories.
My mother summons all her courage,
out of the past, the frail nostalgia,
and disdains the people she has to work for.
It’s been two weeks of complaining,
but she doesn’t forget to bring me
another cup of tea.
I sit here reading an old copy of Woolf
at the varnished table.
Inside the book – I weigh my life
against the yellowing pages.
My head is finally getting clear of voices.
It is after a long, long time.
Stealing the taste of country green,
the earth smells of jacarandas.
I look up and see –
crows on a telephone wire
gazing like an old mystic,
flashing in empty eye sockets.
In the back of my brain,
there’s an eerie quietness,
shining like crows on a telephone wire.