Ron Stevens

They said that I'd be better off
if I shifted to the coast
to spend the time that I have left
with my son who wrote to boast
of golden sand beneath his feet
and sea-breezes on his chest.
But no-one warned of how I'd feel
when the wind was from the west.

His wife and kids have welcomed me,
done their best to show they care.
They introduce me to their friends,
fluff the cushions in my chair,
position me to watch the sea
and the shoreline's deep unrest:
a strangely soothing view except
when the wind is from the west.

My edginess intensifies
if young Jill is near at hand.
She has her grandma's auburn hair
and the skin that never tanned.
My outback bride lives once again
but the tears I've long suppressed
are stirred by freckled innocence
when the wind is from the west.

The air is charged with specks of time
and the dust of distant days.
I glimpse myself about nineteen
through a cattle-muster haze;
a drifter till I met Irene
who adorned our humble nest
with crystal love, still magnified
when the wind is from the west.

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