Tuesday, November 16, 2010


For five minutes
we are alone together
at the table
where your arthritic fingers
carefully inscribe details
into the page to a day diary
so the days don’t blur into one.

Moments alone together are precious, stolen, fleeting;
wise words
while balancing the pool pH,
soothing counsel
while driving this
destitute daughter to the station.

But one moment alone together
remains a trophy in our heart.
It is a shared heart, an inheritance
too giant, gentle and soft,
a troubled survivor
of a world beyond comprehension.

I pose the question:
Do you remember the night we got the Christmas tree?
His eyes regard me
with their dark stormy blue of the North Sea,
a hue once reflected in the eyes of ancestors
who brought us here via the desert.

The moon shone through the clouds,
he says, and the treasure was unlocked.

I wasn’t scared, I say
as we silently reflect
on a dirt road in a quiet forest.
We would have been home by sundown, he says,
if all had gone to plan.

But the wheels motioned
our vehicle deeper into sand
And a gammy elbow
couldn’t support expert hands
to lift it, laden as it was with an orphan sapling.

So we walked
toward the moon.
There was nothing to
be scared of, he says.

Steadily we paced along,
suspended in the freedom
of clear air, towering pines
and the single sound of
feet crunching country byways
in our own little black forest realm.

Your feeling for direction
delivered us to the nearest outpost
of rural civilisation
and alone together
our heart rolled home again.

By Justine Reilly © 2010


  1. Beautiful ode to a gentle relationship. Love it as ever! Jo

  2. This is just lovely Justine. I love this poem. Vuong.