The Weekend Australian poem 2 July Written By Todd Turner Mothership for my daughterDecked in a black dress, leather boots and pink-ombré hair, you dragged me through a mile of saltbush to stand on the world’s edge,at your sacred place on the clifftopbetween cloud and coast, earth and sky. And the miniature sum of us,reflected in equal parts against the all,wandered the towering headland before settling on the peninsula’s crag.Teenaged-you looked north to seawhile middle-aged me lay flat on the precipicewatching the rollers slam the granite wall.And what I loved, when I looked your way,was how you flipped me the birdwith a concoction of nonchalance and glee,illuminating yourself for a moment—as if to show me the simple truth of who you are, and how you see this world.I see in you a fired resilience—Your realism can flint the spark in any stone.Whatever it is you want from this worldlet your natural elements be your mothership.Make dust of fire, and may rough edges lead the way. Todd Turner
The Weekend Australian poem 2 July Written By Todd Turner Mothership for my daughterDecked in a black dress, leather boots and pink-ombré hair, you dragged me through a mile of saltbush to stand on the world’s edge,at your sacred place on the clifftopbetween cloud and coast, earth and sky. And the miniature sum of us,reflected in equal parts against the all,wandered the towering headland before settling on the peninsula’s crag.Teenaged-you looked north to seawhile middle-aged me lay flat on the precipicewatching the rollers slam the granite wall.And what I loved, when I looked your way,was how you flipped me the birdwith a concoction of nonchalance and glee,illuminating yourself for a moment—as if to show me the simple truth of who you are, and how you see this world.I see in you a fired resilience—Your realism can flint the spark in any stone.Whatever it is you want from this worldlet your natural elements be your mothership.Make dust of fire, and may rough edges lead the way. Todd Turner
