Here

                                                  The moon knocks on my breastbone,                                                                                                 asks to come in. Such quiet – I fall into it, sounds fall into it like homecoming – raven calls; the pardalote chicks’ chorus of cries at each visit from their parents and the thready monotone of four or five repeated notes in the interim; the approaching and retreating digdigdigdig of a helicopter fanning the night’s rain off fruit in the cherry orchard along the road; wattlebirds feeding in the flowering pōhutukawa, their voices guttural above the d...