Selected poems
Shy birds
saturnine, specious — some of the dusty words shelved, reserved
others, elsewhere in the alphabet — leonine, pellucid
also, seldom called for
a few colours best isolated
lime green kept away from brown
but communion is expected of the living
trees in forests, termites in nests and with birds
always congregation:
at every soak, budgerigars in profusion
swamphen, coot and ibis, thick on every shore
with human kind the same, almost
hysteria to be linked
a few odd bods about, still: non-conforming, exotics
chick less, night parrots of the street
though not excluded by choice, or as yet extinct
Approaching the turnstile
The holder is a valued member of our community. Please extend every courtesy and assistance. — Government of Western Australia Seniors Card
this far from the turnstile
even this close, I know less than a handful
that will attend at my passing
yet am I dismayed?
nothing attaching to my name
shall be recognised after I'm gone
yet knowing this
am I dismayed?
but if, when called upon
at eighty years of age
I cannot prepare a sandwich
make a mess of my words
I fear that the thought may occur:
I have my Seniors Card but I have no legacy
and I have no Torah
I have no Bible
and I have no Koran
Outside Dunkeld
mist floats above grey valley floor
rises around Gariwerd's* pilasters
through this foggy lens of dawn
I try to fix a kangaroo tableau
before it begins to blur
my hands shake as breezes
tease dew dropped grasses
twitching noses read — a human here
two different species
haunched at half trigger
a moment of jointed
rumination
my camera still unfocussed
then it all blows away
*The local Aboriginal name for the Grampians.
Backyard campaign
sheltering in the gloom of the shed, he witnessed the storm's assault
his treasury of plants ransacked-vegetables devalued, cannas rag dolled
rose petals scattered, bushes bleeding from the guts
herbs planted in an old dog's bowl a week ago, sun supercharged so much
they're now cooked in their shell
rot then came to lettuces he'd drowned weekly in Thrive
let go to seed, broadcast by a windy day, now he picks the rogue results
sky clouds over so slowly, a slug's slow progress
he lopes around whatever else he planted months ago
what he has tended like a new born babe, now weedy thistles in tanks
little stalk of man-hat, spade, wheelbarrow
remembers frenzied locusts, sees where fire has been
treads in sandy runnels from a prior flood
it's contrary for Nature to be returned to exactly what it was
but a fresh campaign begun to salve this tender spot
Westfield World
if unbusy enough to live a lot
in shopping centres, your time's spent
swimming along arcades
reflections of your angel fish face
staring in at merchandise
behind