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Suburban Sonnet
She practises a fugue, though it can matter
to no one now if she plays well or not.
Beside her on the floor two children chatter,
then scream and fight. She hushes them. A pot
boils over. As she rushes to the stove
too late, a wave of nausea overpowers
subject and counter-subject. Zest and love
drain out with soapy water as she scours
the crusted milk. Her veins ache. Once she played
for Rubinstein, who yawned. The children caper
round a sprung mousetrap where a mouse lies dead.
When the soft corpse won't move they seem afraid.
She comforts them; and wraps it in a paper
featuring: Tasty dishes from stale bread.
by Gwen Harwood, Tasmania, 1968
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6 comments:
Gorgeous photos today. It's bare and brown here. THese warm my soul. Merci.
V
Such beautiful and balanced sets of photos! Excellent work, Julie!
The text has me all depressed: easy for you as you're in the midst (or thereabouts) of summer while we endure cold, dark nights.
Reply to your query (tiny extract from the reply I wrote on my blog): Lumix FZ7.
So that's the tree, it does look similar. I think there are quite a few different varieties. Very pretty spot.
The agapanthus are just coming out in my garden and the neighbour's jacaranda is in full bloom ... yes things do happen quite a bit later up here.
A very powerful poem.
Golly, indeed, yes! The jacaranda is all finished down here but the agapanthus is still going strong although the hydrangea is a bit singed and wilting.
The poem is a corker isn't it? Those 50 yo women from the 70s sure struggled with the concept of "superwoman".
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