It was a cool summer afternoon.
White-plumed honeyeaters worked quickly
gathering insects from the leaves of a gum.
A plane swept low in laps for a nearby parade.
I noticed how the fences of my garden stood by idly.
I thought, someday if I could watch this scene afresh
captured as film - a given light, the given world,
and me, here, but held by time at one remove - then all reserve would vanish.
Like a homecoming - I would grasp each detail keenly.
Alas my thoughts turned to a nerve in my back,
to the undue fame of my enemies
and to my awaiting glory, as majestic as the ocean meeting the shore.
I have recorded nothing.
by Simon West
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| White eucalyptus © Jennifer Phillips |
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