she had the sunrise on her head
and the ramble sky in her eyes
and sometimes painted by evening dress
in the flat on Richmond Hill
with the old mansion mirror
because she told me
colour doesn’t rest anywhere
an ancient fig ruptured the path
where she skipped ahead of me
and would tread the bingo call of tides
the priest asked me if I wanted to say
anything but how to capture
the lament of crescent shade
she moved in waves not steps
you can’t swim Bass Strait
that won’t stop her trying
James Walton Poetry 