Constructing A Landscape - Poem by Bernadette Hall
Mother to son
Fifteen years these hands
have leaved about you; here's
the church & here's the steeple;
constructing a landscape.
Exalted from the initial dunking,
you prise the slats, escape artist;
beating like a fontanelle
within the ngaio tree.
The movement being ever outwards.
Go then, from this softer shadow;
love your own sexy sweetness;
trust your own truth.
See for yourself how we all
do glint, one off another.
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