Poetry

Driving through Moss Vale, late

Two streets up from here my father is asleep, I hope. But I know he is not. He waits for daylight to give him the rest of being up and doing. My mother, his wife, his only girl he has nursed and has buried. I shall not call in at this hour, I do not want to disturb him. And so escape to the comfort of a darkened countryside, hoping that with distance, the softening moonlight, I find a reason other than a son could not face his father in that empty house.

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