When I get home, I am singing.

(A thank you to V)

We walk & talk

until she stops

beside a flower

to smell or gently touch.

Or to trace

patterns & colourations

in bark

(have you seen

the hieroglyphs on

a scribbly gum?)



beneath a gnarly tree

she stands &


reading stories

of historic kinship

with indigenous people

or hardship

from fire or mite.


she gestures to mountains

speaking the language

of giants

Arawang, Booroomba, Ginini,

Gingera, Bullen Range, Gudgenby


Over the years,

it’s not my knowledge

that has blossomed

(although maybe just a little),

but my gladness.


If I am a radio

she has taught me

to tune out the static

so that every walk

finds music

crisp as a bugle.


When I get home

I am singing.

2 thoughts on “When I get home, I am singing.

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