By Jane Frank


Poems fall into my inbox

from people I’ve never met


home-baked cookies cool,

the dog, ecstatic we’re home


rolling in fallen lilly pilly flowers

beneath a vibrant fickle sun


the silver underside of gazania

foliage sparkling with a new


energy – It’s a blessing that

your father never knew a thing


about this my mother says

from 300 miles away, sipping


coffee by his grave, our

conversation dispersing three


ways on speakerphone so

I wonder about the discordant


song of a magpie on the line.

Each night, I’m over-dreaming—


events take place in swishing

haloes of colour that zoom


in and out microscope-like:

the faces of old lovers, secrets


whispered behind cupped

hands, a bell tower swaying


in a lightning strewn sky to the

raw peal of bells. The boys


plan to watch another episode

of The Walking Dead. Now my


mother is speaking of the time

they first met, their stars joined


on a ferris wheel of hope.

These days like watching bulbs


grow, slowly – the past pushing

through an uneven surface,


sticky new petals uncurling—

their colour not yet known.



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