I imagine you are kneeling, the shape of you –
knees white and thighs pressed wide on hoary earth,
in supplication as you quietly dismantle
betrayal into phonemes, as if by shaking them apart
they will offer something more than sadness.
I see you hold the goblet, empty
and wait for it to fill. Tonight
there is no more wine than sadness,
dumb dreams and inevitable grief housed
in the greens of an olive garden. Oil lamps
wink out like deceptive stars that misguide men,
as you quicken and remember that gardens are treacherous places.

Written in response to Ian Fairweather’s art work, ‘Gethsemane’.

Kristin Hannaford

 

Kristin Hannaford is a Queensland writer and poet who often writes about the natural world. She has had four collections of poetry published, the latest is Curio (Walleah Press 2014). Her poems and short fiction are published in a range of Australian and International literary journals.

© 2018