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A smouldering grid on a cypress stand
I suppose my mother’s gesticulations from the women’s gallery
A B-grade movie drumbeat of doors and panes,
The weatherboards built years earlier across the street were ex-Army:
If from the emptiness of space we’re surprised to hear
But no-one these days goes in much for constructing religions:
Mothers never fare well in these stories:
She comes to his office in such despair at the end
blue- and gold-fringed morning cloud sees her off
Galileo climbed to the top of the tower from where he addressed his students
How discreetly birds must die elsewhere!
Just there on the rise, before the road descends
Over familiar suburbs, the mountain’s blue silhouette
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