writeoutloud
until the duvet is folded
Until the Duvet is Folded
( after CG Thomas' "As I Lay Dying" )
I rest in the breath of wild thyme,
late warmth carrying a brio of wallabies
slipping between trunk and shadow.
A duvet settles over me,
its seams brushed with wattle dust,
the slow dissolve of aniseed toffee on my tongue,
linen on the line lifting in the afternoon drift.
I linger, hearing bees
trace loose spirals through tea‑tree and grevillea,
the ring of my father’s axe on the woodblock,
my mother’s voice spilling from the kitchen —
flathead spitting in the pan,
condensed milk thickening in its tin.
The ground beneath me eases,
soft as sand after rain.
I watch the sky unroll its pale cloth,
clouds loosening toward the far hills.
I remember a cake bright with sherbet lemons,
tin kangaroos wound and hopping,
friends whose names still bloom in my mouth.
Back then, no thought of what might follow —
only the clear window of youth,
edges now dimmed.
I dream the meadow into its first dawn:
river tumbling over stone,
wallabies hidden in their burrows,
duvet now folded and set aside.
In that last quiet,
I choose love over ambition.
The air keeps it for me.
.
evening at the tide
Evening Benediction at the Tide
The tide returns in
sculpted prayers over broken shells,
whispering covenant
beneath gull-scarred skies.
I press my palm to driftwood—
a liturgy in grain,
fibers carved by centuries
of salt and forgiveness.
Salt water heals
old fractures in the stones,
and in that ancient hush
I lay down my grief,
each wave a footnote of mercy.
.
Bless this shore with memory’s quiet grace, that what we cast away may rise again in the arc of dawn’s unbroken promise.