1.
I'm sitting on an upturned dinghy's
hull of aluminium, in a wild,
untended remnant of your garden
on Kanomi, next to a young carob tree
trailing clusters of green beans
like dangly, Carmen Miranda
nineteen-forties ear-rings -
flanked by custard-apples, guavas,
last of your exotica, overlooking
coconut palms marked for ethnic cleansing.
Behind the tattered shreds of blind
framed by an uncurtained window,
your mirror faces west, into flamboyant
island sunsets, no longer remembering
familiar contours of your face,
the arched dark brows, a touch of rouge,
hair's natural waves, lips' carmine paint -
shaded from the outdoor blaze
by your distinctive parasol.
The sea air keeps on adding and subtracting
nuance, shade and trace, much as Gauguin
might have done with canvases.
An injured turtle beached itself
and lay on rocks close by to die.
Ant-convoys invade sockets of its eyes
to claim the soft tissue, emptying the skull
and carapace as termites gut your place,
which clings, tenacious as the passion vine
whose sinews twine across the wan facade
in phytogenic gestures of defiance.
Your bungalow will soon be less than shell,
recycled particle by particle as form breaks down
and matter seeks its source; as the turtle, stranded,
mortal, is at last redeemed by water.
2.
The shape of this house,
its cavities - material, incorporeal -
its orientation, the air it displaces,
already seem familiar to me,
yet as far beyond range
as the copper-sulphate, sapphire,
turquoise, cobalt sea
visible from Geraldine's windows,
comforting in its constancy.
Is it because the form or age,
some quirk of aspect or location,
imbued with clues and childhood
mnemonics, bear subliminal
messages for me?
I almost sense the hum of kitchen
activity - someone brewing tea
with a sylvan breeze in sibilant leaves
and currawong gossip for company,
my mother's footfalls creaking on boards,
as if she might reappear suddenly.
Once I would sit on steps like these,
encroached upon by mango trees,
dying to leave, to move away;
already homesick, wanting to stay.