ROY DUNCAN

Isometry

We are such history of held embers.

I was the bones of a tree once –

        heart of paperbark,

        cloven with a pillbug’s curl.

Stems and light

hang inside me like old stars.

Like blue’s memory of green –

ghost-gum spirits cradled with the Moon.

And tomorrow

        (tomorrow)

our lips’ soft moss unspoken;

flying fox against the firebright

ský-deep with waves of dreaming.

In truth

       we never left this ocean

       at all.