Uphill
in Melbourne on a beautiful day
a woman is walking ahead of her
hair.
Like teak oiled soft to fracture and sway
it hung to her
heels and seconded her
as a pencilled retinue, an unscrolling
title
to ploughland, edged with ripe rows of dress,
a sheathed
wing that couldn’t fly her at all,
only itself, loosely, and her
spirits. A
largesse
of life and self, brushed all calm and out,
its
abstracted attempts on her mouth weren’t seen,
not its showering,
its tenting.  Just the detail
that swam in its flow-lines,
glossing about—
as she paced on, comet-like, face to the sun.