Lynne Cameron Taken At Her Home In North Ryde

The air, warm, unmoved, clings to our bodies Like an old, familiar blanket. From the west, the light, A warm amber brew, pours down And is strained through the leaves of the nearby gums It fills the veranda and spills through the shuttered windows In a gentle rippling stream, To settle thickly on the timber floor. A lone cicada breaks the stillness In the drawing room We sit and chat, She and I and tea Passing pleasantries with the milk and sugar. She rests, motionless, amongst the ornaments Reflecting the soft glow of late afternoon An image of her mother’s mother, sepia gold, Smiling from the sideboard Fifty years, trapped by the glass Fifty years cornered by a silver square. Alive once more, she sits before me Talking of Mossvale and Mulberries. Beyond the window, the air, Dusty with the incense of dry bark, Hangs lifeless from the branches of the gums, Where a solitary cicada sings to the setting sun.