Bora born
Zero time _
Sunday morning comin down, the back room
where he sits at the laptop, typing the
reply to all those faraway people.
The mind floats inside words, panama bound.
Subtle shift in conscience, kookaburra's
laugh outside in the backyard, the dappled
light filters through the bell fruit tree, dancing
across the keys, breath so light, time stands still.
The smell of the bush drifts in through the fly screen
Macca's on the radio, somewhere in
the background of his mind, backlit by wild
rice walls on days such as this, long gone.
He looks left to where the window should be.
The gentle shock, senses lifted, teaser
of time, the room lifted from memory
slides from the past Kowanyama bound.
- O -
© july 2007 _ Nhawrr yirrpa
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Zero time _
Zero time _
