The Widower in the Country

I’ll get up soon, and leave my bed unmade. I’ll go outside and split off kindling wood from the yellow-box log that lies beside the gate, and the sun will be high, for I get up late now. I’ll drive my axe in the log and come back in with my armful of wood, and pause to look across the Christmas paddocks aching in the heat, the windless trees, the nettles in the yard . . . and then I’ll go in, boil water and make tea. This afternoon, I’ll stand out on the hill and watch my house away below, and how the roof reflects the sun and makes my eyes water and close on bright webbed visions smeared on the dark of my thoughts to dance and fade away. Then the sun will move on, and I will simply watch, or work, or sleep. And evening will come on. Coming on dark, I’ll go home, light the lamp and eat my corned-beef supper, sitting there at the head of the table. Then I’ll go to bed. Last night I thought I dreamed – but when I woke the screaming was only a possum ski-ing down the iron roof on little moonlit claws.