#129 ‘What is
real:’
The young treelet
arced out a new green branch
like a child
lifting one tiny arm up to you
hoping to hold
hands while crossing a road.
The feral cat
looked back before squeezing
beneath the fence
wire, making itself as flat
as its shadow.
The night fire in
the bush, the broken car
unmoved for
months and months
outside that
home, dreams of damper,
a young man who
spoke half a dozen
words of English
and even those fading.
The girl who
refused to read through
her tears.
None of them
knew me though we were here
close, every
day, stuck together in what’s real,
sensing that something
else might be near.
Such crafted, ominous images, Kev. Your work this year is excellent; it will be your best book when it's finished.
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