The Day We Knew Keith Died.

We follow the path like a brown tide line,

Etched in the shape of the last wave.

Still trees turned from brilliant bronze,

To a broken brown at the backward turn,

Of the autumn clock.

Lifeless like a patchwork tableux.

Stuck where we're supposed to be,

Man, woman and dog.

The quiescent railway track hems us in,

Under Sylvia's jar, encassed,

In the glass of a paperweight.

Inevitably with your frozen scene,

We are connected.

Condensed Earth contracts to leave us,

Breathless at how life could have turned,

On an Aussie's word.