The brown earth snake
winds up the hill.
We travel on it, ants in
space
held in by tree upon tree
upon tree,
one dropped by bat or
bird to mark
each year since the start
of counting
four hundred million
years ago;
and ferns for festivals
and feasts
in case the months go
unremembered.
Somewhere in a green
curve
the firework bursts of
two hydrangeas
dazzle the eye, pull in
the breath, attract
butterflies, their very
familiarity
reminding us we both are
strangers.
Joe Massingham, Australia
