image

It's minutes from midnight.
The earth ticks as good people farewell their kin,
Recoil in basements, underground stations
Huddling - on rooftops, staring into floodlands

And I turn to metronomic domesticity.
Hanging clothes, washing dishes rhythmically
Ordering just so -

the shelling and rushing water becomes muted,
Still - the ache in my chest.

Pobblebonking frogs and willy wagtails chatter
Under a pure white moon

It's close to midnight, and for a blessed moment
There is peace.