to my father

I cross to the other side of the street to find the flames
of maples in the bright autumnal air seasoned with smoke
from the chimneys of nearby homes. I take them in: the leaves’
vermillion skin, translucent in the sun, their veins pointing
at my feet, a smooth acorn… And here you are, the rusty gold
of your crown thinning. I sit next to you and ask that you call me
like no one here does, like you used to, in the voice I have
forgotten. The dry leafage rustles. There isn’t one name for this
time of the year that doesn’t speak to me. Born in the North to its
colour, I now wish that it didn’t fade into the evergreen, like none
of it had existed: the name, the voice, the brief season of father
-land. How do you measure distance without the resolute
endings of winter, the time to mourn, as the world takes
another turn?

**

Irina Frolova is a Russian-Australian writer who lives on Awabakal Country. Irina’s creative highlights include her poetry collection Far and Wild (Flying Islands, 2021), the second prize in the 2021 Deborah Cass Prize for writing, and a longlisting in the 2023 University of Canberra VC International Poetry Prize.

P76 issue 9: Poetries of place/ displacement/ diaspora/ odyssey: On-line Edition. Table of Contents