A Queer Thing
Wasn't this a queer thing? I stood with your mother
At mid-day in her hot, still, polished kitchen
Preparing a mountain of ordinary bread
And wholesome butter. Where can be more quiet
Than stifling Brisbane noon? I heard a tread
On the wooden stairs - a slow, deliberate climb.
"They're back early, and lunch not ready in time,'
I said. And she: 'It's my husband, ten years dead;
He often calls when all the house is empty.'
'But I am here.' ' You are not,' your mother said.