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October 2018, vol 14 no 3

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Cynthia Rowe

The Call

our bell tree carols
with lorikeets

It was like a slap in the face. ‘Your father is dead, a heart attack.’ He had been fine that morning. I’d spoken to him on the phone. He told me he had booked a round of golf. At 2 pm he was due to tee off. First, he needed to tend his garden. But, but . . . he’d sounded so well, so fit and happy . . .

a wild strawberry
in the rock’s lacuna . . .
somewhere a crow caws