Art by Claire Ollivain.

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

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