‘my love letter to the planet’, Sebastião Salgado,

	         Genesis, Natural History Museum, 2013.
i.

I perused the shimmering images of Salgado,

chiaroscuro palettes of black and white:

penguins      cormorants      whales      sea lions,

volcanoes      the Antarctic      glaciers of Alaska…

afterwards, I chose a postcard of African elephants —

then back home in Australia

I leant it against the photo of my father

and the carved elephants he brought back from war.  
ii.

I recalled the house of childhood      the sounds,

back-drop of war —      his portrait on the dresser,

khaki uniform      how the light stroked his brow,

chink of teeth      his smile,

the row of elephants alongside      and, on Sundays:

silver cutlery on crisp white damask,

the meagre roast,

grown-ups’ stories of the black-out, ration books,

nurses and hospitals, underground shelters, the blitz,

the silences.  
iii.

in winter, we scattered toast crumbs on snow,

then indoors, beneath a table, its folds of dark cloth,

we looked through the cold glass of French doors:

sparrows      blackbirds      specked the whiteness —

the room droned with the voice of BBC news.
iv.

today I will buy a stamp for the postcard,

write nothing but my name —

she will remember.