Nights without George

for Charmian Clift


Nights without George
you pace the floor,
linger at the balustrade
alone as the moon
you lean towards
expectantly -
a lover's face
cast up by sea
on cliff scarp
overlooking Bondi;
long-lost voyager
returning,
diver surfacing
with trophy...

Then your mind
runs wild on Bombo,
self-styled sea-witch
lured to the city,
wondering
how others live,
wanting to be
the tallest poppy.

Now you reside
at Stratton Hall,
circumscribed
by a Juliet balcony's
red-brick smirk
of Cupid's bow,
from which you scan
the ageing moon
and visualise
the sandy arc of sorcery
somewhere below.

You shiver
in your hilltop crow's nest,
listen for a mermaid singing,
like the nights you lay
in Bombo's gleaming arms,
star-baking silver;
hearing whimpers from the nursery,
portents in the canopies of banksias
that turn their pewter-bellied
leaves in fitful breeze:
a Juliet who chafes at domesticity,
at all constraint,
wondering why George
is working late;
no longer free, still lonely...


from 'The Book of Lost Addresses'