by Pauline Cleary

When I reach the gate,
the call of a mopoke
cuts through the night,
haunting and melancholic,
a two-beat song,
repeated.

The moon rises,
glowing and evanescent,
floating on orange-rimmed cloud;
tossed into the sky
by some out-of-world deity.

Flickering light behind curtains
in neighbouring houses;
the faint hum of voices,
clatter of dishes;
drifting on the night air.

At the gate, the call of a mopoke
cuts through the night.