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?)

**

Sometimes

beneath a gnarly tree

she stands &

ponders

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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