poem for ross langdon (31 Oct 1980 – 21 Sept 2013)
becoming earth & dust
at mother’s feet;
she reads TaTa to me
over shards of tears
that soak through grass
& clumps of turned earth
right down into the gum roots
& blunt Tasmanian rock;
mother weeps quietly
& weeps constantly,
tears of tiny hands
& fingers
that i cling back to
from the past
as though light broke
over Slopen Main, then stopped,
a moment before the black.
i can see the mountain
from my slope;
kunanyi.
i can see the river
that sang with whales
before our land filled with rabbits;
i can see the clock that stopped
on Africa-time, early afternoon,
near somewhere else;
& i can see my tiny rabbit’s face;
as i imagined her into being
beside elif.
i now make mud bricks
with mother’s tears & TaTa’s words
on a windy hillside beside kunanyi;
i am earth & dust.
