Hang on, it's still winter
Walking up the slope from town
blessed by perfumed vines, their scents
drawn into my clothes

fitover sunglasses
keeping my eyes dry, not watery
from glare. Going home

to a garden full of honeyeaters
in the flowering gums, bees
on the rosemary ...

only the heat indoors reminds me
the air is still chill to my mother
shawled, sleeping in her favourite chair.

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