Hobart Reset

By Jane Frank

Part of me hovers in icy harbour air. Beyond the skein 

of streets, the peak glows orange. 

Love just is 

and we happen to be in the path of it. I walk for a long 

time, trawlers cutting through silk, 

drawn to the red crosses 

of Dark Mofo. I photograph the moon, distracted by strings 

of far shore lights, the Derwent a dark gallery. 

The blackness 

is deeper here, velvet-rich like in ancient times when people 

read the heavens like a book. I think about 

how Earth looks 

from space, red with fire, imagine snowflakes decorating 

the space between me and the mountains, 

easier to remember

who I used to be if I’m willing to become a little lost / Up 

early, I wander down Battery Point’s narrow lanes 

scooped by sea views, 

sun shards bouncing off sandstone and brick around a circus 

of haphazard cottages, houses tumbling backwards

to the white-capped mountain. 

Gulls circle.  I could run from here onto clouds. Ivory flat-

lands sprawl through the oval window, 

flying home. Transparent 

edges where, if you didn’t watch your step, you might fall 

through to a green hell—only distances matter, 

sundrenched finish lines. 

I look into screensaver eyes that know I will soon return, 

an absurd happiness striking. Already, I am  

shedding layers. 



Hobart Reset