a crop in the valley of sleep
a meadow, a hilltop
a curl of smoke flowers
above a house

the window, the curtain
more than a hotel

the heat is announced
the blanket is hotter
but, still, ‘if this your idea of fun’

even in sleep
a scent like wine
how has it survived so long
and is it still free

on the porch
deep in the song
or a handkerchief of that scent
‘hotter’n it's ever been’

sort of like salvation
of the perfect snows
an illusion of a page
turning through the door
an illusion on a pillow
love pushes it

occasional strays on the boards
the illusion of linoleum
from the old house
the compassion of snowy white
ice cream, oh so vanilla
on the lips

there is nothing which will explain it
how you got here
and transformation
into rooms or the hill

as if there were no decades
but only mistakes
or sudden moonlight
lining the rooms
slant candles or curtained ripples

I am that woman
and if this is spring
on the east wind
salt flowers and crushed yellow grass

if it were otherwise
ecstasy peeks around the corner
of the verandah
‘you’d never have guessed’

flitting, the silver insects, the wavering stairs
no, the scene must change
next door, a picnic among the graves
a eucalypt tea
and the grasses dry by the road
a heap of branches like bones

this universe is a guess, a testing
a moist stone on the tongue
the blonde sandy taste that is so old
you’d swear there was about to be
some kind of revelation

but if you turn on the light
and imagine something cool to drink
this is trouble
as bad as going back to the house

you miss it
you survive years
but something passionate
has turned out and wandered down the hall
past the stations of mildew
the stale mocking wall

hear, the ceremony of water
fresh with metal and rust
and the pale blue eyes of morning

Jill Jones