I have swallowed a country,
it sits quietly inside me.
Days go by when I scarcely
realise it is there. . .

I talk to this country,
tell it, You’re not forgotten,
nor ever could be.
I depend on you —

cornucopia packed close
with daylight moons
and bony coasts,
the dust of eucalyptus

on my teeth; mudded rivers
burnished smooth
under the cobalt crystal
of a lucent sky.

It is my reference-point
for other landscapes
that, after thirty years,
have multiplied my skies.