UNDER WISTERIA, TARRA VALLEY FARM
Lombardy poplars held magnet to the sky
the slow horizon a repast of moon
to lick the salt bone of stars
my hand bleeding from an oxide barb
a fortune told by every runnel
catch at them as they mind
the fat house cow kicking out
against the pollard grip of entrapment
cold lambs asleep by the wood box fire
mothers calling gunnery under the veranda
tethered by mid creamy clusters
our lives as steadfast as marble
coiled to place by that ropey dock
holding mauve as dreams faded
to brittle headstones of fool’s gold
LATE WINTER SUNDAY REFLECTION
Three houses down
on a morning with snow
I notice while out walking
a kangaroo in the vacant block
where they tore down the last
of the fishing shacks
to build three huddled units
She stands at full height to query
as I take a phone shot to prove
my presence in her moment
And how I wish to hold her
paw in hand with trust
back down the road to the Reserve
close the gate on this suburb
watch her hop and turn a farewell
float the gravity of leap
Wave a palm so close to mine
We could be family
She knows the truth with humans
the hurling want to be
waits for me to pass
delves deep into the long jump
better to leave that flowing symmetry
of tempting feed and boundary
One Easter at another place
marsupial arms reached by the sliding door
hungrily taking hot cross buns
from my children giggling giddy
On entering our lounge I stop to ponder
Can we ever be sure we’ve not met before?
A TAWNY FROGMOUTH CALLS
all night the mopoke asks
how to restrain the dawn
preferring the dark romance
of a prayer in anonymity
unspooked by examining moon
hidden by philosophical niche
an urn of the tails of things
unscripted by human tongues
harsh judgements cast by summary
in the shriek of meal governed time
the hunt a flying suitcase capture
wraps around any scurrying thing
spills messed vacation clothes
a pin prick undoing of finest needlework
fertile as the surgeon’s scalpel
where the brutal edge sings
disappearing within morning foliage
slow as a nocturnal drunken handclap
between each eye’s blinking rotation
settling feathers like a gardening glove
ATONEMENT IN A CARMINE MORNING
it might be ice
broken glass rises
from the camber
sharp as a walled camp
aquaplanings
locked treads
in counter curve
lose their algorithm
a condolence of wattle
the forensic lumen black
where primary colours meet
something darker rises in me
leave things be
let the blackberries renounce
the cock’s thrice summons
on one arm, mother
the other triptych, fucker
head forward in a gymnast’s pose
I make the call
the patrol officer
is younger than my daughter
a first death stalls in her throat
a gasp of brandy catching
broken rifles kindling on the slope
atonement in a carmine morning
IT’S CLIMATE CHANGE, …. STUPID
Thirteen seconds of rain fell today
some sieve of conscience
enough to have a spider re set
a filigree of spent gossamer
either side the hours baked away
hardboards caked in a dust of flour
setting on the Mediterranean herbs
no longer happy this far south
we have aged beneath hats
unwashed to bare our tannins
tattoos run to veiny course
wiped clean in the mystery of towels
these delta maps pertaining
swing a mattock if you can
count out the longer shadows
of inky hot and blistered sweat
remember to listen to the drops blessings
choke down the boot polish of yoke
as you know deep in the strain of things
the time for talking is over
