to take and give and promise,
to fight and fail and alter.
I aim towards Forever,
but that is no one's country,
till in perhaps one moment,
dying I'll recognise it;
those peaks not ice but sunlit
from sources past my knowing,
as beauty of completion
the end of being human.
from Some Words by Judith Wright
A kind of weaving
goes on all the time in houses, its pattern
determined by the years of taking and giving.
And we were fortunate, house, to have your shelter.
Your roof crouched among trees on the turning planet,
part of a surface receiving rain and sunlight,
kept off the shrieking
spped of space, the bad weather,
enclosed our portion of time, our pattern of making.