Should you go inland
along the finger of water
that stretches through
the dark shadows of
steep valley sides
and rippling, dank bush,
beware, least you be
seduced by the solitude
and are forever lost.
Words from the Jagged Edge of Truth
Should you go inland
along the finger of water
that stretches through
the dark shadows of
steep valley sides
and rippling, dank bush,
beware, least you be
seduced by the solitude
and are forever lost.
The forks on the tractor
lowered the log onto
the milling table,
the bushman rolled it
into position, levelled it
for the blade, cut one length,
turned and cut another, until
the tree was gone, replaced by
a naked, square beam, strong
enough to hold up the sky.
‘Shake your fist at beauty’
he said from the shadow
of his ageing years,
from the mist of
those forgotten dreams
where young women,
dressed in their winter
clothes, strolled
down the sidewalk.
Fat drizzle falls lazily
over the slow day
and hangs, a
curtain of mist,
off the edge of the
café’s wooden
veranda.
The burning sun
turns to gold
the western sky,
while the glass mirror
ocean glitters
for all that it is worth.
When the tide is full at Puponga
And the sea is a glassy calm,
There the low sky above us
Sings a blue and quiet psalm.
And the sun it bravely shines
Across the winter morn so clear,
There it is I hope to find her
An angel shimmering in the air.
COLD BONES
In the late hour,
the snow on the mountain
makes its way indoors
and there is neither fire
nor warmth in this place
to keep it at bay.
Deep runs the submerged
valley floor between the
sharp rise of the green bush
darkened by a veil of mist;
a foreboding chill settles
on the surface of the sea.
Busted in the green bush
Two stood side by side
Five long fingers each
Hoping to remain hidden
From the corporation’s reach.