Above the sky, black slate slit along the mountain
crest lets in the moonlight, creamy light after rain.
Three shades of black make up the mountain, hill and river:
no water now, just stones where once an island rose.
Cockatoos have long since ceased their raucous cries: the
magpies caroled one bell.
Down among the campers' tents lit by soft diffusing gas
kookaburras laughed, then fell silent. But a lone
plover, wings slicing up the night
creaks its call across the flats and willows.
The car turns and makes for town,
its lamp beams silhouette the elms before the
river banks and mint beds. Suddenly
the ridge planks flap angrily.
Two rattles; beyond the bend the car disappears.
"I think I'm ok now, " says my mother, octogenarian
who has crossed four states in twentyfour hours
and was mightily confused in the hubbub of
Kingsford Smith runways, stairs, travelators,
steel trolleys, fast food joints, intercoms.
"I'm home now."
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