he packs his suitcase

standing and waiting

he looks round

then slowly gets down  on his knees

to pray

today he is leaving

pulling himself up

he brushes the tear

swimming like a mystic raindrop

in the dark hollow 

of his eye

there in the kitchen

ah , yes !

that warm and steamy room

of his childhood

the old woman , 

round and plump

wraps the homemade provisions

for her little one

and his father brings out the spirit

and young

and old

toast

to the past

and to the present

and of unspoken tragedies

to the future distant and wide

as an ocean

close and foggy

as the bedroom window

she clings to him

as the koala

embraces it’s Australian tree

and the old man 

turns away to look at the stove

he unwraps his mother’s tender arms

the same arms

that once fondled a baby

he takes his belongings

and not looking back

stumbles down the dry ,

cracked up road unfolding before him

  ‘ there hasn’t been rain for nearly four weeks ‘

says old Stepan , ‘ he’ll be back ‘

next to love

the freedom of expression

is God’s most cherished work