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.