our mother, burning

the night is still

the sun,

an overripe persimmon

descends through a shroud

five hundred cockatoos take flight

an evening squall:

our warning

from the south

wind like a melting glacier,

an avalanche through a chasm

takes our breath away

we hold our hands to our faces,

stare into the rising cloud

a dark fungus blooming

ash in our hair,

upon eyelashes

a single black leaf

floats onto my arm

Published by chloeroselilly

Samples of my poetry, fiction and personal essays in amongst real life

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