In a Eut.

I remember

Driving through the night
In the Eut.
Discovering new scent and views on that South Island landscape.
The kids growing pot by the stream and the possums with their large eyes.
The dead wallaby on the road
Your mother loved on her attested walks, before its demise. And after.
Owen. Clever. Regailing with an increasingly comfortable yet unknowing wit
His large frame o.k with me inserting his clip
And the asserted bond of travel
The dimension
Of departure before arrival
And the quiet tear at the airport

I think he knew then
He’d die happy. But not know
Your children
And they wouldn’t be mine.