We have heard the music
of the dry hillsides
at different times,
and also sensed the pauses
where the narrative resides.
We have loved
our "countries of the bone"
in different ways,
our souls x-rayed
by their relentless light
that knows no compromise.
The harsh winds of Aegean winters
burned like ice behind your eyes -
a gaunt ascetic, seeking revelation
under southern skies.
Some saw you as a prophet
with the desert in your sights;
others, as a voice
evoking deserts in our lives.
You once confessed
your heart cried out
for Patmos,
for the island hills:
in our country, sheep
do not wear bells…
for Patrick White,
Australian writer
(1912 - 1990)
Patmos
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104042700361
Свидетельство о публикации №104042700361
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