This poem is taken from Stand 225, 18(1) March - May 2020.

Christine Koutelieri Four Poems
First Language

When I heard the voice
on the radio
I picked up nothing
except R.P.
a refined, level English tone –

but as he got into his story,
his history
and began to talk of home,
when he spoke of love and pain,
the twang came through,
the vowels lengthening, gliding,
and I heard bright colours,
the outback’s ochre sand,
an orange sundown sky,

losing the place we started,
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