I have swallowed a country,
it sits quietly inside me.
Days go by when I scarcely
realise it is there. . .

          I talk to this country,
          tell it, You’re not forgotten,
          nor ever could be.
          I depend on you —

          cornucopia packed close
          with daylight moons
          and bony coasts,
          the dust of eucalyptus

          on my teeth; mudded rivers
          burnished smooth
          under the cobalt crystal
          of a lucent sky.

It is my reference-point
for other landscapes
that, after thirty years,
have multiplied my skies.