The Scent of Native Frangipani

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.


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