When I’ve Gone

By Karla Whitmore


What I’ll miss is the envelope of green

that bears the cycle of the seasons

trees, shrubs and flowering stems

a constancy of summer autumn winter spring

I’ll miss walking my suburban streets

passing through cloistered eucalypt trunks

in the park where children laugh on swings

and off leash dogs fuelled by freedom dash


Too good the taste of many cuisines

I’ll miss the tang of spices simmering

lashes of lush sauces and oil from

groves on enduring rural hills

from page to film and stage a pantechnicon

of need from classic tales to ribald fun

stories that challenge comfort ground us

I’ll miss them when I’m done


What I’ll not miss is the world outpacing me

hijacking the future to prepare us now

I prefer the pleasures of a passing life

as earth wearies of the anthropocene