This is a second draft of a poem prompted by a late night smell off a cover
of the book by my bed. So any suggestions will be welcome.
I lie here
in early autumn night
reading Ponge’s* Things*
when I smell the woody smoke
from your writing shed’s potbelly
(smell always prompts memory)
and hear the multilingual words
of your weatherboard shelves compete
with the hurrying scurrying feet
of possums in your roof at night.
It’s my experience of
the Fire Sermon, the lasting text
in the mountain air, time
so tricked to be in
two places at once.
Andrew Burke
Books available through Walleah Press
http://walleahpress.com.au
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