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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 8, Number 1, March 2014


Patricia Prime
Auckland, New Zealand


beaming smiles—
beside the drive
a stone buddha

Lavender blooms in your garden, fills the house with its perfume. The guest room has been prepared for me: hung with pictures, bookshelves crammed, a new magazine on the bedside table. I am alone, reading Dan Brown's Inferno on my Kindle. Suitcase open on the chest of drawers.

Outside the window, a change of light. Looking up I see the sun dip red behind the hills, darkness falling. A landscape of failing light fills the room, a gentility of shadow drifts over chairs, deepening the carpet, dimming the titles of books that surround me. In this house, there is the polish of new furniture, the litter of magazines, lap tops clicking, cat purring. The room is alive with memories. Take the pictures on the wall: photos from various stages of their lives: childhood, graduation, marriage. The coming darkness changes everything. What was once full of colour now fades in front of my eyes.

In the kitchen, you stoke the fire and I write a letter to friends I haven't seen for years. This house looks loved, filled with paintings and photographs, flowers and the smell of coq-au-vin cooking in the crock pot.

after dinner
listening to Miles Davis
on the stereo



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