night-time in sydney

The future often seems like the past, but it isn't.

I am leaving town soon.

Tonight at the rise of the hill, the black sweep of a bat, the skreek.

Now the wind is up, the chill is in.

I feel that my bones are made of sandstone and mildew, that Sydney feeling.

What will I make of the dry, and the desert?

All around me is transport: trains, planes, dogs out walking.

The past was never the future, something you can only earn.

What have you forgotten, now you are seated and staring at your hands?


chris said…
hi jill--


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