Back in Hobart

Back in Hobart

Back in Hobart

My point of reference is this summer slope,
these paddocks stacked like long plates of bread;
and at day’s end, the black loaves of the hills.

I’m back in Hobart after years away
visiting remembered, holy places:
grey boulders in a small suburban creek,
the leopard-spotted plane trees in the square.
The permanence of place does not recede:
the spiritual sky, the unencumbered air.

A cloudless day. Each carted stone in place.
My mother’s house lapses in front of tended trees,
and to the left the mountain changes face . . .

Years ago in Paris I saw a threadbare robe
worn by a priest in 580 AD;
locked behind glass its tarnished red and gold.

Standing by the gate I recall the whole scene now
knowing how things change, and how they hold.