Twice now, this road. So the sign
at the crossing has a familiar slant
and ashes are beside themselves under
a weight of leaves that last visit were
nerve-ends, the first lines in history.
You’ve settled here lightly, the way
a river runs together all the places
it’s passed. And if we correspond
it is as water parts into umber, lapis,
terracotta, all the colours of the earth –
as, looking back, you’ll see someone
catching the sun on a wide, amphibious
verandah, and see your way clear
to the inlet, the stepping stones, to taking
your life in your hands and crossing here.
And the way it is not the same river.
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