Effie Wakes at Midnight

The moon is one eye of a river trout.

     Clouds are a scaly puzzle,

boobooks in the Jungle

are steady as a clock,

     dogwoods curl and mist hangs

thick as paint.

George will rise soon 

     to swing crates of flowers 

onto the truck. He’ll make Sydney

before dawn and by noon 

     kitchen dressers will trumpet spring. 

The verandah spills a circle

of yellow. A wary quoll 

     skiffles under laurels. The owls again, 

soft as dew on grass. 

You imagine a hare dense with young.

     Every memory in the garden

holds two stories

like an otter Louisa Atkinson found

     sieving along Bowens Creek 

until she saw a platypus.

Bodies learn to inhabit a law

     of doubles. The inky wheel of night

is braced by ferns

tall as pavilions in Alfred’s treasured

     Marché aux Fleurs. Where will you go

when southerlies bite 

and fingers ache dividing bulbs? 

     Leaves pierce the soil, 

green as hope. Pines

zigzag up to meet barrel gums

     in their giant originality.

Morning will yield 

caper whites and skippers

     hazy with pollen, bowerbirds

will chivvy for territory

as honeyeaters draw ribbons

     in the air. A shed door thumps.

You turn and go in.