(after the portrait of A Levine by Noel Counihan, Melbourne 1953)

I see how you look at us, elegant fingers poised,

amber beads framing an ochre cashmere twinset.

You are as they say, a beauty, passionate to know

more, be more, glue the family heart with fierce

ambition and a gentle touch. Your friend the social

realist captures your rosy gaze, a stylish ease

at odds with tales of you raking those fingers through

managed curls, fretting for love betrayed, for children

who did not marry as you hoped. Come. Let me

take you from your chair a while to walk in our garden.

Your son loves me as only men who love their mothers

can. These roses grew from rootstock, their white

blooms thrill us still and the purple hydrangeas nod

yes to all we do, but lately we favour native grasses

resilient like you, they thrive here. You know, your

children agreed on everything except your portrait

so they multiplied your likeness, rotate the original

every two years. We have you now, lit up at the end

of the hall. I greet you each morning. The night you died

you left your criminology essay on the bedside table

half-done, a closet of fine silk blouses spattered

with cooking oil and rooms full of grieving friends.

I came too late to love you. We are held in filaments

of memory—your hand on his, his hand on mine.

Australian Poetry Members Anthology, (3), 2014, p 27

Earlier version published Poetry d’Amour 2014, p 59