Gavin Austin
distance in my mother’s eyes . . . again she roams those wattle-scented hills remote and untameable in her favourite chair she recalls the sound of the stream that shadow-filled gully where the bellbirds toll she rearranges roses in a…
distance in my mother’s eyes . . . again she roams those wattle-scented hills remote and untameable in her favourite chair she recalls the sound of the stream that shadow-filled gully where the bellbirds toll she rearranges roses in a…