In memory of my grandmother

The full moon washes the garden in light.

Bare branches of elm, a tumble of ferns,
each stone on the path from my mother’s house
to the door of your own.

In the notes of the mopoke’s song
descending again and again,
I fall through night air.

Think of your hands, still warm,
reaching across the bed
as you close your eyes.

High winds shunt the ragged clouds
so it seems the moon
is skating backwards.

I want to keep holding
the hand that held my own
as a child.

Loss is a pure tone
released from the body.
A note in the darkness

descending again and again.