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crepuscular

SUBURBIA

Along the avenue of shorn maples,

leaded lights are discreet – distantly,

the cathedral darkens in a rose sunset.

A piano lesson begins, as cars turn

into drives and a door opens broadcasting

the six o’clock news. At an upstairs

window, a woman holds a baby, sees

nothing in the crepuscular room, hears

only the snuffle of breath on her neck,

the small heart’s beat, the swaying lullaby –

amid ordinary, pink perspectives

of curbed greenery, herbaceous living

and bells telling the hours.

 

 

 

THE INVERTED EUCALYPTUS

In the unlit room, the glass-topped table

reflects the crepuscular, upside-down

image of the tree. In this small picture,

the Moon is descending through its branches.

 

Through the window, a hazy full Moon,

trailing south easterly clouds, is rising,

with the shimmering Evening Star, above

the eucalyptus, across a darkening sky.

 

How fast we move through the universe and yet

how still the glass on the table and the panes

in the window, the tree and its image,

the ubiquitous eucalyptus, appear:

 

an accidental, antipodean

masterwork of reality and dream.