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He drives the axe
into the block of blue gum
just like is grandfather did
all those years ago,
splitting kindling for
the wood burner,
necessary for food
and warmth
both now and then.

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for Philip

In the high silence
above our house
in the hills, I catch
a whisper of sweet
songs and names
half-forgotten by
the hurried years;
below in the valley,
the silver river
flickers like a candle,
in the light of the sun,
on your birthday.

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I saw her all those years ago
beside the rolling shore
I came to take you to the edge
to see the islands that I saw
crouching in the setting sun
on horizon’s lonesome moor.

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These words a reminder
that we should not kill each other,
that we should not kill our babies
or our young men;
that we should not convene the story
to reflect the lie of our own truth.

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They told him he had to sell his car
because it never could find its way
back to his house when he was behind the wheel;
he couldn’t see the problem with that
because the car inadvertently
introduced him to some nice people
he would not have otherwise met.

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