And so she sits,
White witch, wise soul,
Fiercely independent,
In a young body,
Truth pouring,
From journeying face,
From willowy limbs,
From curved connections,
Modigliani’s muse,
Brought forth,
Billy chugging.

“Guess my accent?”, she says,
In broad Southern Queensland,
Stamped with her own inquiry,
And rises,
And starts to dance,
In inner motion,
As eyes that should be resting,
And mind that should be calming,
Rear up,
Catch that gaze,
And wonder about life’s pathway.