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.
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