The smell of mud

As simple as picking up the telephone

I turn my mind and 'call' my mother

we discuss what is happening in my life

relationships, work, family, crafts.

I picture her on the farm

or 'The Block' as she called it

moving from 300 acres

to just a neat quarter acre.

The smell of mud and flies

never far away, she would picture

me, in my far away, city-place

she never liked flying.

I am more involved in my story

than listening to hers

finally I wind down

replacing the receiver gently.

Reality is a grey cloud beyond the hill.

I see her burial place

overlooking the river

winding down to the sea

a simple cross engraved.