Close as
a Thought
...that I may relish each perfect blemish...
Latest Work!
Foreclosure
Dust mocks the windows, reminiscent of forgotten rain.
Your fingers thrum, insistent rhythm leaking
onto the bare table.
The paper lies between us
one edge curled and pinked with jam
like an unread script
we cannot act without direction.
You once pattered your fingers on my arm
talked of mobs of ‘roos, Summer rain on iron roofs.
You carried me in white across the threshold.
​
Through the window I watch a dark coil
smoke over Stony Ridge.
We’re safe here until dust can burn - you say.
Ours is a slower end.
Yesterday you trudged over the thin dark smudge
Spring Creek
where the children learned to swim
you, your father, and those before.
As we left the stock yard I latched the gate
habit of years
while the last dozen head trailed a plume of dust
over the pass.
Your hand skitters across the paper
your fissured lips form words I cannot hear.
I recall your stumped thumb stroking my lips
such sweetness I hadn’t expected to miss
You raise your eyes to mine
lick your finger and reach for the pen.
This is it then.
Foreclosure : : Highly commended Calanthe Poetry Collective competition 2023
​
First published Calanthe Press, 2023
Photo : : Talgoxen or Great Tit inside the workshop of an 18th century ironworks in Forsaström, southeast Sweden 2021
your fingers
twined through mine
a filigree
of soft foam
laced the winter sand
you strode
along the empty beach
tendrils
of a blue jellyfish
grasped a retreating wave
seagulls
cry amongst the rocks
you waved
the east wind
snatched your reply
black lines
ladder the doorframe
each summer
she has grown
edging closer to high tide
late summer breeze
keens through the trees
her slim fingers
on your guitar
bring your voice closer
Over the Horizon
contrails
of a distant plane
my breath
hangs for a moment
on the crisp morning air
clouds
move and disperse
I walk
through the perfumed wake
of departing mourners
late bees
drone among the flowers
... the hum
of your sleeping breath
a lost lullaby
grass blades
bow under the weight
of a single ant
this determination
to bend, but never break
the plane
passes behind a cloud
this longing
for destinations
beyond my horizon
Ebb Tide
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a branch lit
by summer lightning
your smile
flashes for the camera
a moment before the fall
the siren recedes
with the afternoon light
how it lingers
this scent of eucalyptus
and disinfectant
nestled
in your father’s arms
a fledgling
open mouth
in silent call
counting tiles
in the sterile ward
numbers
you never learned
beyond your years
wooden box
shorter than my arm
empty now
forever circling
your untold weight
Fledgling
Lake Eyre
Across the arc of chisel
& time
the sculptor is defined
by the contours
of her mind
​
Excerpt from "Lake Eyre" poem
​
​
despite the fire
a gnawing chill remains
putuwá
in warming you
I feel a thaw in me
Morning
Morning drags its sleepy head,
climbs heavily through the trees.
A cat paws apart the curtains of the night,
darkness dives beneath damp pillows
Bright darts ignite the cooling sheets
and weariness blunders sideways to the kitchen,
wonders – where is the kettle
and why is toast?
​
Someone’s birthday,
Someone’s wedding day,
​
Somewhere regret heaves a heavy sigh and braces
to break a heart
Someone will not greet this dawn,
the calendar has turned the final page.
The sun struggles over the trees,
plays with the coffee steam,
draws the clouds closer and rises
to the challenge of the day.
Winter Sun
This foreign winter claims me, gentle light
lulls me with its warmth and speaks of home.
The scent of wattle hangs in honeyed air
drowsy with the drone of heavy bees
Long years fall weightless as I drift through time
to tread again in long forgotten woods.
A carpet sweet with bluebells round me grows
a bridge forms from a lately fallen oak
The canopy lies dying, fading brown
a blackbird sings within her fallen home
a silken song of glory, faith and loss
she pours her hopes into the afternoon
The bluebells fading with the sinking sun
the wattle draws me back, the bees are gone
the river ebbs, the cooling evening air
still holds the echoes of the blackbird’s song
Mowing the Lawn
It ended, of course, we knew it would
yet I found myself unready
for the tasks ahead - how sympathy cards
would bury the lists and the aide-memoires.
The post has dwindled to dull brown bills
and periodicals, still every day
I make another call to unsubscribe
from the weight of it all.
The days lengthen, each skill I learn
I lose a little more, I pay the bills,
know the lawn can no longer be ignored.
I drag your mower from the garden shed…
​
It glowers at me from the lawn.
I should have listened way back when, instead
I watched a robin, maybe, relished the scent
of fresh cut grass, and you, which filled the air.
At last I coax it into life - it roars,
and I regret my surge of pride. With care
I skirt with round daisies, buttercups
and dandelions already gone to seed.
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