In the headlights logic is no guide,
and the roo standing nine foot on its back legs
is a griffin, and its eyes are green fire
set in feathery, tinder-dry undergrowth;
washed in high-resolution night-vision,
slightly off-centre full moon;
I dreamt last night, still disturbed
by the near miss, that no guide had ever
been at my side, that the house
tilted with isolation, that all the dead
had lifted and walked on past—foundations
and framework not earthquake-proofed
enough, knowing the summit
can’t be transgressed. Though you’ve gone further,
and won’t call back, unattended?
Yesterday, I spent the afternoon
tearing melon infestation from the driveway,
tap roots stratifying local history.
It has to be done, you say. I rebuke
myself, an early sea-breeze bringing
humidity from that distant coast,
the crackling of invertebrates in dry grass
is muffled, and I notice my hands are raw
from weeding, and I stand within my childhood.