Settling In

Port Noarlunga, January 1987
A new house, a new life. In the garden,
the wind knocks down peaches before I can
pluck, or birds maraud, them. For a week
I eat them, one after another, cusping
each bruise from mellow flesh. From creeper
and vine come spiders, talismanic
on my door, late at night, or high in
corners, reawakening childhood fears.
Inside the house, wreathed in its garden,
there is a fallowness; even in gale,
there is a stillness. Here I take leave
of the past, to which I have paid my dues.
In these wide rooms, so open to light and air,
I plant my possessions, prepare to write a future.