by Vanessa Proctor

Twilight in the Bradfords’ backyard
and there’s a crowd gathered,
everyone in their Sunday best.
I can hardly catch my breath,
the Queen of Song to sing here (‘here’ in italics)
on the cottage verandah in Pymble.
William squeezes my hand
and I squeeze his right back.

Above us flying foxes flap
into the darkening night
and the stars are starting
to appear, one by one.

And here’s Mr Bradford
with the lady herself.
Oh Lord, how regal she looks,
with her hair fashionably waved
and that fine string of pearls.
She is otherworldly.
Mr Bradford’s hands tremble
as he raises his flute
and we barely hear
a note before
that voice. (‘that voice’ in italics)

Light and silvery,
it soars to fill the night sky,
hovers, takes a part of us high
into the canopy like a beam of light
as it shimmers through the gum leaves
with all the power to envelop us
so we will never forget.