For his daughter, Harry would give Sunday morning.
Up the forest hill-cut they would tread, late
summer grass razed under power lines steeling the long view,
blue cape of sky at hill’s crest pulling the girl
past a forest garden, unwitting,
onto the downhill slope to the road.
Wet plimsolls and a brown-buttoned jumper,
from the cuffs, the girl’s finger pointing,
this one and that; trees identified by name.
Allsycamore, he’d say, and she’d not know
if it were true, not ‘til long past that blue crest,
past home and Sunday mornings.
hospice call, woman on a plane flying south,
the daughter gave the last Sunday. All the forests
gone, only patio’s banana tree,
leaves fizzing brown in the shadow
of the concrete wall, bedroom door open
to the tree’s dying; out from under
the white sheet, his feet, yellow-horned nails,
arches curled, pushing out their last flexing,
his daughter pointed down, sycamore she said.
Carol Shillibeer is born of a union between an artist (ethnicity 2c) and a
scientist (ethnicity 5b), Carol Shillibeer believes in fertile connections. Multiple
ways of thinking, of hearing the world speak: adenosine tri-phosphate is a
fundamental life metaphor. Her poetry and/or images and/or sound files
have appeared or are forthcoming in many journals. You can find her at