Three Pasts in the Labyrinth

 

They rattle in the slightest breeze

Like wooden kookaburra’s cries.

Their scent lays thick all through the rooms:

The eucalyptus pasts of home.

 

Another past: of lemon groves,

Of almonds, olives, perfumed blooms,

Of questions in a language lost,

Of hoopoes on the ruined walls.

 

Then deeper in the endless tombs:

The aura of a summer moor

Where heather pollen drifts with bees

And curlews mourn the passing years.

 

Between the halls, Ariadne’s twine:

Unwound from love to memory’s end.

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