for Jill



I think of you when the lorikeets visit,

when my paper daisies start to bloom,

when I grow heartsease from seed

and watch the delicate petals strain

towards the sun. Hope you’re doing okay

in the new place. I know the transition

must have been rough. I’ve been thinking

about Eos and Tithonus, the god of dawn

who fell in love with a mortal and granted

him eternal life, but not eternal youth.

She took him to a shining room and stayed

with him as he withered older and older,

grew smaller and frailer, grew into the shape

of a cicada, that glittering little creature

who sings to greet the dawn in summer

mornings. I take a cup of tea out to watch

the light breaking over the horizon. It will

take hours for the light to reach you

over on the other side, and the light will be

softer, strained through winter, but it is

the same light. Remind me to send you

photos. Ask Aunty C if she can set up

a call when you’re free. I want to chat

to you again and hear about your travels

and adventures, the ones you used to

send to us in scrapbooks and the ones

you’ve had since. It’s been too long

and I wish I’d visited more, but I hope

you know I love you, that I think of you.

Did you know that Sappho wrote about

Tithonus? They found the scraps of papyri

in a rubbish heap at Oxyrynchus, the meter

littered with holes chewed away by worms.

She wrote about her old knees and her

hair turning white, listening to the clear

voices of the younger women singing, said

she could not become like the deathless gods

but like Tithonus, she loved delicate things,

and was satisfied with the gifts that she

retained: poetry, the sound of the lyre,

and the heat and beauty of the brilliant dawn.