After The Expulsion by Arthur Boyd, 1947-8
In the garden Kurrawongs wait,
the night peels back our skin,
we are vulnerable as oysters,
our thin thighs and china skin
scratched by eucalypt strips,
without leaf of fig nor story
we have only our audacious desire.
Nights and days of our thin lives
we long for warmth of touch –
here we are measured
for our fallibility, our bodies
fail us over and again,
we cover our faces,
break like brittle twigs.
The kingfisher turns to the grey sky,
feathered to launch
its fragile, heavy body.