If the visitors’ book is to be believed
I’ve been sleeping in a room a ghost
usually occupies. This week it seems
he’s being merciful: the only moanings are
of tonight’s storm, shaking banksias
by their scrawny necks, roughing up
the surf and slapping seaweed all along the shore
so that in the morning we will find the waves
have turned to rust. Then it will be time to leave
our last scattering of scraps for possums, kookaburras,
currawongs, and noisy mynas. The dingo
who tracked us down the lighthouse hill, making sure
he could trust us with the place, will stay
under cover of his cautious eyes and watch us go.
These quiet days away have helped
heal me. Almost as if
eating bread and prawns, drinking tea,
watching films by François Ozon
(images so beautiful and crisp I want
to take them on my tongue),
having the kind of conversations friends
of more than thirty years can have, and now and then
testing the possibilities of prayer,
has somehow offered me a chance
of touching the hem.