I know that it's still winter
in the northern hemisphere;
you tell me that the thaw
comes late this year, in those
inscrutable blue mountains
ranged above your village -
patriarchs and matriarchs
the local folk revere.
You don't know how I drink
your words like melting snow,
sweltering in latitudes of high
humidity; you don't know
how I breathe that frosty
scent exhaled by olive groves,
exhilarated by the hum
of harvesting; while you,
my sister, gulp my words
and savour the Antipodes:
each of us wistful for antitheses.
for Gillian