The words are talking to themselves

08 July 2014

Callistemon in SpringFrom my room I could see the honeyeatersSapping every skerrick of spring juiceFrom the callistemon bright in its blood redness.I watch that red again as it trickles down the tubeInto my arm. It is hard not to hearken to the giver,Mystery and anonymity. Someone, who in small measure,Now enters your life in an act of sharing,Matching makes always for embrace and celebration,And gratitude for the flow of ink in the pen,The chance again to wander in the wordsworld,To see another season of spring colours, birds winging,And the cows bold with their burdens, calf-timeUdders and teats bulging and firming, expectation.All part of the abundance which makes the blood warm.

LogisticsIt’s tide-time and all the shells are chattering,It’s the crab cocktail hour, crepuscular rushFor prized property, competition is fierce, bidding brisk,And the hermit-crab is desperate for a squat.Mollusc miscellany is manifest, the architecture of choice.For the scuttling angle-walker there is much to doBefore the next tide makes the diurnal turn.Lines must be trawled across the sand, and theyKnow, as we do, the water will never be the same.Writing is precious. The stanza of crab-walkDoesn’t survive long. It’s my shell-time today,Trying to clutch the dandelion clocks that seemTo be fleeing so fast as they dance on the sunlight beamsUnaware that we, too, still have much to do.The Parting of the WaysThe rabbits are running along the river today.It’s all blue and green, the weeds are fresh.And everywhere the words are talking to themselvesDeciding in generosity what the morning menu will be today.It’s a day when all is steeped in beauty,You hope a lot will stop and watch,You can’t be sure, but you do know if they surrenderTo the stars and to the sands, they will see a new light,A saga of unborn stories strung across the days,Dancing like dice on the plush of life.Don’t be anxious, bury the ennui, praise the wonderful daysWe have had, and now there are new ways,But that’s only part of the glory, come complineWe, in the calm, fill out the story-lineWith the words that will go on living, thriving,And be fresh enough to heal the deep of wounds,When the blood at the front has run out and silence is a bone.Cross-MatchingAs the poet never knowsWhere words may lodge,So the donor gives the blood,But not in vain.I ask the physician, “Have I any of my own?”“Good question,” she says with a smile.And so I begin to trace – Dispossessed,

ARTS AND CULTURE

The words are talking to themselves

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