Migrations In Memoriam
Autumn, we lay lines,
unfurling across alpine waters,
to flycatch a trout’s eye
Spring,
we are copper lizards
on rocks trailing
the flowered creases
of Crackenback
Autumns and summers,
we zigzag
to the summit,
always a marking of sorts -
birthdays, deaths, waiting out
open-heart surgery -
from afar
A lifetime of seasons
ago – before I left -
you said
the mountain came down
and swallowed lives,
wanted me to know
that bad things happen elsewhere
too
as if somehow that would make
me see,
stay…
Now, it’s winter -
we’re making virgin
tracks
in snow
when the eye
of a raven catches
mine,
a gelid reminder
of these invisible scars -
the ley lines
that connect this place
to your passing
Dad IV
I glimpse
your ghost
in
the sure hands
of a carpenter,
the polished grain
of Oregon pine,
the automatic way I
switch off the light when leaving a room,
the geometric folding of
a newspaper
on the train,
UPPER-CASE EMAILS,
those who talk to
dogs
as if they were human,
to humans
as if they were
joy itself,
the cheerful scatting
of a man in his shed,
brother’s
exasperation when someone goes right
to turn left,
sliced tomato on toast,
and – every morning -
in the shapes
of my
toes
—
ill wind
filicide
closed you in at night,
no space to breath, but
we thought we were
safe, years
on
a sparkling day,
something faceless
on the breeze,
snaring
your shadow,
hermetic fate
sealed
by a pernicious beast, forever
changing the way
we navigate
the world
No Jacket Required
Cannot
draw, paint, sculpt,
create symphonies, move to
mirth or action,
enthrall,
sing with the voice of angels
(or the sublime Ms Fitzgerald),
cure with digitalis,
build to withstand
the aftershocks of a billion
humans,
yet,
can,
in an instant,
locate true north
of a moral compass,
see the colour of a
beating heart
1 + 1 = ?
golden opportunity -
wormhole to a smidgen of
the universe -
squandered
in too much big
hair, Kate Bush
and Saturday Night Fever,
and,
who cares to know it,
an absence of self-trust,
So,
mathematics – the Ark of the Covenant,
and I – just another stupid girl
End of a Dream
C-sharp minor
plays through the eaves
of this house,
wind-cold emptiness, the ambient noise
of destruction
where laughter once lived,
Shoji, last opened to plum-blossom whispers,
now lachrymose with silent
half-life,
a bird singing for
no-one
City Style
Midday,
it’s lunching,
suited in boardroom sociopathy
By 3pm, its black sartorial
boredom hangs
in downtown coffee bars
The city, at 6, loosens silk ties, casts lustful
stares across crowded pubs
Its throaty, pashmina’d laughs drift
over footlights at 8,
Around 10, it’s sporting fusion-cuisined
energy and scent of MSG
Overtimed road-crew neon reflects
stumbling stillettoes,
come midnight
And at 2am, it’s pyjama-shuffling
its drug-coma’d streets,
mad-haired, in the darkness
But you’ll find it
just before sunup,
reposed against periwinkle sky,
at its naked
best
Fallout
But what about this man
who risked his life
to save the drowning?
Who will save him
from the haunting
of those he couldn’t?
Sky Wars
Storm ions mass,
stir up old injuries,
swelling cats’ paws,
silencing cockatoos mid-screech.
In the particle zoo,
darker the light
settles stillness unsettling
like a spine tingle…
Then
an electric spear is thrown,
punctures the tension.
Fat clouds, slow on the uptake,
grumble to rain
to wash it away.
The Tea Party
They bring cakes, smiling,
but there it is,
transparent in those quick glances
Like shots fired into the back of a retreating enemy
they reveal
what lies beneath -
a green glow in their empty hearts
a silent war
in this festering landscape that is suburbia
Liquid art
We descend
from the incinerating heat above
through the cool water,
speckled with sunlight,
and then drift
weighted, but weightless
in the silence…
inhale…exhale…inhale…exhale…
Sculptures of ancient rock conceal
and reveal
an extraordinary profusion of life—
I move closer…a pair of feelers
shrinks back into a dark crevice,
a clownfish nibbles
on a strand of my sunlit hair, the shadow
of a stingray passing overhead…
inhale…exhale…
Suspended in a living art gallery
of creatures, bizarre and magical,
we breathe in a vaudevillean kaleidoscope
of parrotfish, chocolate dips,
Picasso triggerfish, coral trout, pineapple fish,
swarming shoals of baitfish—the exhibition is endless…
inhale….exhale…inhale…exhale…
Life’s tensions
are expelled through the bubbles
of the deep,
slow
pace of breathing;
my senses are heightened,
but I am completely
calm.
Above the brain
coral, a horseshoe leatherjacket
on its side in a cleaning station, enjoys the nibbling
of the cleaner wrasse
in its mouth and gills…
inhale…exhale…
A cuttlefish sashays past,
eyeing me coyly,
displaying its fabulous
Mardi gras costume as I wave
my hand in its direction.
A saucy, painted red-lipped
morwong flicks past,
while a dugong smilingly lopes along—
an underwater burlesque
and Carnivale all rolled into one.
I marvel
at the phantasmagoria of the deep…
inhale…exhale…
The enormous,
gregarious Maori wrasse engages,
while the Neanderthal of the sea—
the prehistoric stonefish—sits unseen
and deadly on the bottom,
camouflaged as a rock.
The dark side is right here—
Look but don’t touch!
Don’t peer too closely into the nooks and crannies!
Don’t dive too long or stay too deep!
And always there,
on the fringes
of my consciousness, lurk
the sharks. Thrilling!
Inhale, exhale,
perhaps a little faster.
Low on air,
time to go, but we will be back
to explore the endless
beauty
and search for the elusive
weedy sea dragon.
Look up,
inhale
exhale
inhale,
and exhale,
surface slowly…
from my favourite place.
The Brother
Ancient Bijin dolls
smile in polite approval
as she paints in the dim light of a Chinese lantern -
a little piece of the Orient in African suburbia.
At 3pm she serves her handmade guests tea,
positioning them in their miniature chairs
so they can admire her handiwork.
Teddy loves its fiery breath,
Polly nods uncontrollably in agreement,
her eyes blinded by the Brother a long time ago,
but Humpty Dumpty is scared of its horns.
At 6pm, on the way back from her bath,
the Brother pounces,
twisting her arm behind her back,
“I have srayed the dragon,” he menaces. Tell on pain of tickring death!”
In her room,
she finds her exhibition guests in contorted poses,
the graffiti spray still wet
across her masterpiece:
NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS, HERE’S THE SEX PISTOLS!”
On pain of death or not, this time she will tell.
