I hear the honeyeater’s voice
as I enter the folds
of sheer fabric, opening
the memory of a woman’s
wrinkled hands, trembling
between ancient threads
at the dawn of the forest
which has no bounds, only
an endless rolling over
of waves –
turning over a message
in the shhh… of leaves
enfolding you and I,
in liquid darkness
where there is only bliss
where a chorus of honeyeaters
echo in my bones, asking the
bottlebrush for a kiss –
if you listen closely, you’ll hear it
in the sigh of the streams
in the dew-dropped webs
in the lines of the squiggly gum
in the clap of thunder
that tells me, go home
in the fabric of language
stronger than my own
