Jena Woodhouse


You knew how it would be before you came: your dreams take root in an alien sky; wither; you watch them die; and hark back to immensities of beach, a light-sluiced tidal flat where mangroves grasp the air tenaciously, and slow waves creep; a faded dwelling-place, its timbers bleaching like an upturned hull; lament of gulls, the shriek of lorikeets.



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