Leaving for the Myanmar jungle,
her tender love brushes my cheek,
her ineffable softness of skin
is as rare as musked gazelles.
‘You’re not hopeless as a Daddy,’ she says,
her delicate remark floating in the air,
a dragon-fly in slow motion,
‘I’m hopeless at touching my toes,’ I retort,
swallowing my overworked destiny.
So much pain, all the way back to the cot.
Yet my daughter has spoken, after eleven years,
nailed in perpetual shock, is redeemed.
She is walking backwards now
up the hill, waving to me,
as if directing a plane to land.
Then she is gone.
more pervasively, alone.
Across the bereaved, green haze of Myocum fields,
I am spreadeagled on bedrock,
bedrock of grief
and the purity
Myocum, Australia 2016