by Rupert Bunny The wall hangs red.Beyond, the glare of day creeps towards the angel's feet, reminds us of the world out there, the light in here, the moment in the room, her room, when everything began. Downcast, with sulky dread, she can't have found it easy in the hush before that talk, the face she can't meet, the signing that he gave of her movement into fate. At the end of life, she thinks of wings; how they hid more worldly light, blew in and shook her tunic to her throat, and leaving, beat beat, what must have been an angel back to air. The Canberra Times, 1994 |
Poems >