Agenbite of Inwit.
In the murmur of voices I recognised my name,
laid my book aside, lifted my curtain, stepped into the glare
of their scrutiny. They had gathered in shade
under the banyan where light through leaves
flickered over the grass and tufts of kapok floated.
They waited as I read the message.
My mother, somewhere, at home,
home, somewhere, my mother was dying.
They searched my eyes as I folded the paper,
neat as a bed-sheet fresh from the line,
and tucked it into the breast pocket
of my chilled, soaked shirt.
I turned to find my long road home;
the curtain bulged in a wind from the west.
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