Sly frangipani breath, sweet memory snuff –
out of nowhere, how brief grace unfolds.
It follows me down the footpath at dusk:
scent from unseen trees.
I think of my father, the last husk
of him, breathless, under that canopy
of clotted cream and butterscotch … once more,
my mother’s garden dapples me, her native frangipani
offering naves for butcher birds
and flying buttresses for possums …
a place where she promised we’d be
‘nearer God’s heart
than anywhere else on earth’.
The earth under my feet
is shadow-inked now, another day nearly written out
but not yet forgotten
as I scan from soil to sky, find the light
and its silent psalm of scent
in the falling songs of currawongs,
their winged black calling home
shy as a blessing, the first star.