speculumannorum

Ashes in November. & the fanatic

burgeoning of a bushfire, the hush afterwards

clean as amnesia—its onslaught

demarcated by the retreating birdcall.

Each spring, through the changing light of the valley, there

falls the wondrous rain. Green gowns strew the

gnarled roots, sewn with sprigs of

holly. Seen from a reverent distance, smoke

issues from a rustic cottage

jagged as the torn veil of a jilted bride. Over the bald

knoll, a choir of clouds uncoil

like rumours passed between tongues. In devastations like this,

memory becomes the aftermath. The soft-bellied sun

nuzzles the lush summer sleeves of the resurrected

oak. Imagine the intimacy of two

people lying under such oak, wearing nothing but their

quivers. Such trust. They must’ve bathed in the same

river, long before the quieter one

said anything to the other, before they even

touched what must’ve been forbidden to them. Autumn

ushers in undeserved grace: wings returning briefly to the

v-trees, crowns of berry-strung branches & familiar

warbles. The earth forgets nothing. To gather

xenoliths after the test of lava, to

yearn as the leaves do, stirred by a swell of

zephyr. May the fire teach us.

Meanjin