Mist envelops the creek where
horses neigh in the half light.
The white gums that flank the lawn

have scribbled their messages
in a script we can't decipher…
Anticipation's hush

holds us, uneasy. We listen
to the creek in the silence,
moving, restless, over stones.

All night it will keep up its prattle.
We can hear the swish of a breeze
releasing itself from its wicker cage.

Limp clothes hang like ghosts on the line.
A woman, come to unpeg them,
smells them for freshness, then

touches a garment to lips and cheek
as women for centuries have done.
The clothes are too moist and cold, she says.

They have waited here too long.

© Vera Newsom