To my dead son or daughter;
I left you, let you pass,
kept you out
frozen: The mark of
the palmist foretelling five children,
I climb this hill now, with four at my side.
Your memory: A shadow on the distant range,
where eucalypt is to its last;
the blue mountain.
Though I climb and four grow,
the wife that was then is now gone;
her grief and her echo.
Still I sense the soft pad of your call,
the tug of your passing,
the first breath of greeting.