My point of reference is this summer slope
these paddocks stacked like long plates of bread;
and at day's end, the black loaves of the hills
I am back in Hobart after years away
visiting remembered, holy places:
grey boulders in a small suburban creek,
the leopart spotted plane trees in the square.
The permanence of places does not recede;
the spiritual sky, the unencumbered air.
Poem Back in Hobart
Vivian Smith
