Cirrus@Austlit

'And dad's first to go, while outside the countryside rushes by in bounds. A few ash trees run past like children, others slow giants in the distance. Each one planted far away from one another. I watch them wave in the cool air while we all sit inside, cocooned in warmth, stubby fingers under thighs. I write my name in the steamed glass, and in the reflection Dad turns-as if about to speak-but instead he says nothing, only slumping onto Mum's shoulder...' (Publication abstract)