A smouldering grid on a cypress stand
I suppose my mother’s gesticulations from the women’s gallery
A B-grade movie drumbeat of doors and panes,
The weatherboards built years earlier across the street were ex-Army:
When we found our way back to what used to be our home
If from the emptiness of space we’re surprised to hear
But no-one these days goes in much for constructing religions:
Mothers never fare well in these stories:
She comes to his office in such despair at the end
blue- and gold-fringed morning cloud sees her off
Galileo climbed to the top of the tower from where he addressed his students
The dreamtower lifts itself towards a night sky
How discreetly birds must die elsewhere!
Just there on the rise, before the road descends
Over familiar suburbs, the mountain’s blue silhouette
In her wide-open sanctuary