Untitled by K. S. Mahony


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she wakes in the dew
a burnt memory
ochre in the dawn

forced out from four walls
and civilisation
into something more primal
watching the paces cats
walk in the dark

but she's blind out there
seeing yesterday

there's a rivulet
in her not-quite-thickened
to flood

and if she could
those days of Whitianga
cold river wading and
solitary walks on sand

solitary (with the warm hush
of knowing someone waited
in the room)

those days she'd collapse
into the stars
a memory immortalised
and just as cold