by Richard Clarke

High in the Blue Mountains, halfway to heaven,
full of quiet streets and weathered houses,
Blackheath was the favourite holiday haunt
of Sydney Anglican ministers like my father.
No phone, no TV, no pesky parishioners,
but familiar clergy faces at church on Sunday,
time to read, reflect, sleep in
or head along Hat Hill Road to the
sheer lookouts, winding bushwalks
through limpid rainforests past Blue Gums,
counting cockatoos, King Parrots and honeyeaters
while waterfalls sparkled down sandstone cliffs,
then back to town for a splash at the swimming pool,
a milkshake at the Wattle Café.

One year my mother stayed behind in Sydney for a day,
a doctor’s appointment she couldn’t miss,
took the afternoon train up, directed Dad
to meet her at the station at six.
We spent the day in unseasonal sunshine,
chuckling as our kitten chased grasshoppers,
throwing a ball beneath a canopy of blue.
At six fifteen Dad returned alone.
‘She must have missed it. Next one’s at eight.’
A cloud appeared, the wind picked up,
the sky darkened and we went inside to read.
At six forty Mum, gasping, dragged her suitcase through the door:
‘I was waving and shouting, but you, you…’
Then the storm broke.