Gwen Harwood

Loght stole a citys weight to swellthe coloured lofe of stone. Your wordshung weightless in my ear: Remember me.All words except those words were drownedin the fresh babbling rush of spring.In summer’s dream-filled light one soundechoed through all the whisperinggalleries of green: Remember me.Rods of light point home the flockingstarlings to wintry trees, and turnstone…

A third draws aimless patterns in the dirtSomeone she loved once passed by – too lateto feign indifference to that casual nod.“How nice” et cetera. “Time holds great surprises.”From his neat head unquestionably risesa small balloon…”but for the grace of God…”They stand a while in flickering light, rehearsingthe children’s names and birthdays. “It’s so sweetto…