Saturday, 9 May 2015

Nightjar


Rigid,
angled like a broken limb
on a curve of metal arch,
out of place against the leaves
and buds of autumn rose.
Its plumage is bark dun
and mottled grey.

The mouth is opening to growl
as cockatoos strafe past.
It maintains this pose all day
except when we approach
the head rotates,
eyes open to alarm.

With night
bush rats emerge,
snug all day upon their nest.
They shimmy down the pipes
to meet a wide mouth snatch,
the wind beat press of wings.






Friday, 1 May 2015

Off Track


Led by a winding path
away from roads and lanes,
this filament through scrub
will lead us to the ridge.

The scent of nectar hangs
in pale translucent flowers,
with acid shots of tangerine
where funghi swells on wood.

We reach a ragged edge
as ground gives way to sky
the valley floor's a cloud
and paths dissolve in air.

Saturday, 18 April 2015

At what age

will I no longer care
what you think
about my skin, 
its scars and jowls,
the style
I keep my hair or 
clothes?

When will 
keeping house
give way
to pleasing self,
ignoring all the mess
and ingrained dirt,
newspaper tower
cascades
that lingering scent 
of mould?

Can I 
see the day
when I no longer
shower or
brush my teeth 
and food is
too much fuss,
when I 
won't leave the house,
avoid the Doctor
and the post?

Perhaps it is
today? 



Friday, 20 March 2015

Fair Game


Two women
believed it safe to walk alone.
A mother on her way from work,
the school girl in her local park.

In a camp for refugees
or the home for kids in need,
used for sex and abused
because they have no choice.

Children learn,
become the hunters or the prey
or sit apart and close your eyes,
do not speak of what you know.

Monday, 16 March 2015

The Sun Gods



Apollo, Mithras, Helios and Ra,
deep in my cells I worship them
as eyes and skin respond to warmth.

I chart their course across the skies,
shield myself from unknown dark
wrapped in filaments of light.

From tunnel to the temple's heart
each time a candle flame is set
an altar to the gods ignite.

Saturday, 14 March 2015

At The Ball



You look up to us
from the lens of 1922.
More than a room of faces
are the clothes you wear,
from all the lands
you once called home.

Their borders now redrawn
as empires are erased.
Your national pride
expressed in needle threads,
sustain a love of place
that another claims.