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It hurts to stand
to speak
to a crowd of strangers, eyes
focused on one
spot, that slippery space
between my eyes, above
flushed pink cheeks, painted
and primed for just such an event
as this, the gathering
of the guardians.

A season's change

Yesterday there were rosellas
in the weeping cherry,
eating leaf buds and wiping beaks
on naked boughs. Today

finches are fannying about
tempting me out
into late winter, bouncing
on branches wringing raindrops
to the ground. I'll go out there

and sure as eggs is eggs
the sun will kiss my cheek,
the wind will give me bed hair
and puddle-mud will ooze
between my toes.

Grandmother's garden held treasures

Her garden was delightful.
Pansies lined the rose bed
dahlias leaned one side of the fence
and six foot sun flowers
the other. Down
the back was an old tree,
branches dead underneath.
I used to sit in there, in
my imaginary house
where the sun streamed
in and lit the words
on the pages of my books
until they flared to life
transporting me to islands,
caves and castles. I was
a damsel desiring her knight,
a queen captured by a pirate
but most of all, I was somebody
in a world that had forgotten
I was me.

Seven days a week

Dad would sit for hours
on the grey Massey Fergusson
tractor, harrowing the soil
turning sods and re-turning
them until they bent,
crumbled like gold dust.
The land chose when to give
back to him, to repay
him for the year's nurturing
harrow and manure, hoeing
weeds, unchoking plants.
He'd work the ground
until the ground worked him,
gave to him
in a hand to mouth
existence where sometimes
the hand was empty.
He worked as blisters burst,
from sun up to beyond
sun down. In those days
we were richer
than the soil.

All that matters is here

The door is open
I know where it leads
but hold back from walking through,
taking that step out
into a world that gleams
beyond the windows, green

grass and red roses
and laughter.

I don't want to leave today.

Yesterday I might have
in a fit, in a fit
of pique or pain
or downright rage,
the kind that makes me scratch

my nails on plastered walls

or slam doors so cracks appear
in the woodwork. Today
I want to wallow

to wade and not swallow
the self pity that's wrapped
itself about my body, to bathe

and burst hot bubbles
and sup champagne
or cognac
and smoke fat cigars

and watch the cat
sleep.

Sometimes


Sometimes,
when the rain lands just so
on the window pane, I think
of you. The world outside

blurs and I remember when
you brought clarity, when
you brought butterflies
and showed me snail trails,
carrying innocence on your fingertips

between the grains of dirt
that you'd dug up to show
me where worms lived,
and you gifted me
with stars

that had fallen from the sky
and gathered in your eyes. Now
you've moved on, gone
to ground in a place
beyond my arms where

I can never follow.
Yet on winter days
the memories will still surface
in raindrops that pool
below the pane.

He does listen

There are moments in the day
when thoughts whizz
through my mind, thoughts
that begin with the lightest touch
as an eye rests on a butterfly wing,
the monarch's ball gown shimmering
as it dances through my garden.
From there I feel, touched
by the breath of a bumble bee
and dazed by the upturned face
of a dandelion that squirms
when ants wander her nooks
and crannies to sup summer
from her petals. There were times
when I felt alone and was blind
to the simple delights
at my feet. I learned to believe
and asked for my eyes to be opened.
Now, I can see.

Sometimes the dark is nothing

They wander along the beach, search
the horizon for ships
or bottles, clear
messages of need carried by
a powerless sea that licks footprints
from the sand under the sun's
copper-beaten glow. I remember
the salt claiming skin, the tightening
of dreams until all that was left
was the breeze in the dark.

The Song of the Spring

The creek sings
the chorus
as it bubbles
through the forest.
Native ferns
sprout - new life
nurtured with steam
that settles
on petals and leaves
the forest fresh
faced.

Sometimes home is blue

She wears Wedgewood blue
like a double-breasted cloak,
a reminder of her mother
and tiny dishes on the dresser
that held knick knacks
and memories of home.

Some things will be remembered forever

I wanted to return to that place,
that cottage at the end
of the steep, twisted driveway
where Nana taught me
how to bake pies,
blackcurrant pies
we would eat
with ice cream
and Rodd silver spoons
that now sit in their box,
tarnished.
But now there's motorway
snaking through the countryside
and the white cottage exists
only in my memory.

He left it in the paddock

The barbed wire fence
curved like the spine
of a spitting cat,
surrounded the paddock
and kept a prisoner
of the grey wheeled tractor.

The Song of the Hot Spring

The creek sings
the chorus
as it bubbles
through the forest.
Native ferns
sprout - new life
nurtured with steam
that settles
on petals and leaves
the forest fresh
faced.

There are no dreams in mud

I can't see my reflection
in mud as it plops, exploding
on the boil, spurting thick brown
minerals into the air

before plunging back
to splat
beside itself. Today,
there isn't any need.

She made warm winter blankets

There are blackbirds singing.
They don't realise she's gone.
They won't miss her chatter, or
how she sang when her fingers
sewed, quilting pieces, making
layers out of the material
passed on
from tiny shirts, or dancing
skirts and stitched in time, much
as they darn their nests tight
against winter.

The thaw will happen

Frost is a fool's white
covering the tangle of tales
told in the night,
gossip whispered between friends,
those susceptible to listening
and those downright
dedicated to departing secrets.
And like any tale told, frost
that freezes the ground
soon dissipates
under the sun's strokes.

The ducks will wait

He sat in the park, tossing
bread to ducks, watching

toddlers tumble, stumble
to fly. He left a smile,

a promise to the ducks
that tomorrow he'd borrow

more bread.

Their wishes were not so elusive

They pass beyond our fingertips, dead
moving on to a new dawn leaving
vivid memories. We remember

the times they played on the stage
a parody of love shared, erotic
sensual displays where limbs tangled

and laughter drove day dreams.
We remember how clear tears
traced mascara trails on cheeks

when they knew there was a last act,
and we remember how they held
us tight, ignored our chewed nails

and tried to steal our pain.

The trees leave too

Each day I watch the forest
ride the rails. Horizontal
trees on a parallel track
travelling to the wharf, loaded
on ships to sail the Tasman.
On sunny days
our forest lays down
and rides the rails.

Even the birds have reasons

There's a curl on her cheek
as she sits watching
birds on the wing, darning
dreams with brown eyes daring
the day to end. They land
and she waits to watch
them leave, to fly free.
When they don't, waterfalls
tumble. Caught in the curl
they're brushed away
to be forgotten
after nightfall.