|
published
in
Acumen, May 2005
Pearl
Harbour
Now, after all these years,
I’m coming to
the
cottage gate once more, feeling the wood’s
roughness.
The sun is hot on my skin.
It’s
December — scarlet gum trees are blazening
as
I climb up the untidy garden track.
I
reach the top, see the house again.
There’s
a kingfisher perched on the telegraph wires:
glitter
of blue-green, gold breast, he watches.
Through
the kitchen window I can see my Mother—
the
radio’s playing, sun scorches the window frames.
Sweat
trickles down my forehead, my eyes are stinging;
there’s
an uncanny stillness in the noonday air.
The
radio announcer’s voice seems to echo
as
I stare at my Mother, standing at the window.
Suddenly
she shouts, rushes out into the garden.
Her
voice quavers, she drops the kitchen knife;
sunlight
shines on the blade — I shrink from its flash.
Sweat
from my forehead drenches, stings my eyes.
I
glance at the gum trees, their carmine flourish like blood.
The
kingfisher flies away, I’m facing my Mother.
It’s
as if I’m standing before some terrible gateway—
I
pass through the gate, leaving my childhood behind.
The
holiday’s done, the appalling future looms;
the
gum trees seem to be bleeding in this furnace,
the
sky whitens, lit by the blinding sun.
Jane Fraser Esson
|
