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Graham Lindsayonline works |
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Monody Christmas day 1992 A jet crosses the sky it's a long sky and the engines sound exhausted, like drains, the dead whisper of a spacecraft at the end of its journey through the yellow ether. Down here in the provincial backyards of an antipodean city on the coast you can hear the kid next door ask his mum 'Mum is that pork?' twice. She is caught in a spell of light in the late afternoon kitchen. Across the road cars ruminate in a secondhand salesyard on the imminent intersection between setting sun and horizon.
© Graham Lindsay |
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