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.