Sparkles

...

My sister's eyes have lost their spark.
The flint of life that once ignited lights
which burned so bright
has worn away.

Death’s glint shines in eyes
that cast a thousand looks my way—
glances understood through intuition
only born of brotherhood.

As kids, we both could walk for hours on lime-
stone roads, without a word.

Certain sights, like
Granny Hardy tredleying her
‘Pumpkin on a pimple’ bike
would strike us
like a lightning bolt
and crack our sides wide open.

We’d turn and face each other
like two mirrors

and do the knee-slap dance.

Those days are way behind me now—
left in the wake of
early adulthood,
a home-town departure’s
moist exhaust fumes—
buried in layers of clay
beneath dead couch grass
strangling lumpy graves

In my new house and town
that’s hardly home
I just might meet a woman
wife or defacto style

We might press skin-on-skin
I might even find myself
‘within’

but our lives run parallel
and always will

Within the specks
within the pools of colours inherited
whatever they might be
I’d find a relative or two
I’d never met
or ever even spoken to

not near the room for me
my sister's dying fields
of green and yellow contained

Who will laugh with me now?
Who will share my smile in advance?

When life's great feather-duster
tickles my funny-bone,
I turn,
expect to see
those eyes

but the air is cold and empty now

and the swish of quills
brings on a chill
that leaves me cold, and
miserable

I have to drag the sparkle from my memory.

...