And at
midnight, when I awake from rapping, I draw the curtain back with one hand to
see the cause. It could be anywhere, Mt Eliza or somewhere. The neighbour’s
absurd oleanders thrash about, frenzied silhouettes. Curving wattle branches
bend to breaking point then lash back. The nectarine, bare as can be, shakes to
its trunk base. It could be anytime, June or whatever. Warmth is comfort for
which to give thanks, under the doona. Through the curtain gap I see tall
eucalypts, in extremis, whipped and whipping. Waiting for rain sounds on the
roof, I fall into sleep again.
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