hinterland

the wind blows down from
Cambewarra Mountain
bellows & gusts & bends the
veranda flowers in courtly bows
a wrought-iron table in
tattered lace and dust
pillowed around a heavy glass ashtray
a battered loved lounge chair
smells of tea & whiskey & fragility
amongst cuttings of my great-grandmother's ferns
& in the jumbled fumbling strains
of a guitar and a tentative sibling duet
the feet of my grandfather tap
in the fantastical syncopation of 95 yrs
while a puckish grin
sneaks towards me & he mouths
the words of a song he doesn't know
in holy communion
across the generations
on a sunshine day
in the hinterlands