Lynne Cameron Taken At Her Home In North Ryde
The air, warm, unmoved, clings to our bodies
Like an old, familiar blanket.
From the west, the light,
A warm amber brew, pours down
And is strained through the leaves of the nearby gums
It fills the veranda and spills through the shuttered windows
In a gentle rippling stream,
To settle thickly on the timber floor.
A lone cicada breaks the stillness
In the drawing room
We sit and chat,
She and I and tea
Passing pleasantries with the milk and sugar.
She rests, motionless, amongst the ornaments
Reflecting the soft glow of late afternoon
An image of her mother’s mother, sepia gold,
Smiling from the sideboard
Fifty years, trapped by the glass
Fifty years cornered by a silver square.
Alive once more, she sits before me
Talking of Mossvale and Mulberries.
Beyond the window, the air,
Dusty with the incense of dry bark,
Hangs lifeless from the branches of the gums,
Where a solitary cicada sings to the setting sun.
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