pottering under a daytime moon: cypresses X

there’s something solid about the passage

we take en route to somewhere else

my cypresses in particular resist pressure

to depart, they’re still here. i linger in the day

using their bulk as a shield, a comfort

really of similitude, the pandorea fluttering

high up like a triumphant flag of victory

over loggers. a potter is just that, casting

an eye on season’s hiatus as it turns to tease

new growth from slumber loping towards

spring. I hear a rustle of shapes expanding

with inner warmth. and there she appears

a comma of a daytime moon with her

lopsided smile just like mine. as the afternoon

lengthens, she holds gravitas in her gaze

giving thought a chance to rest among

the trees.

 

where words hide

I prefer the horse and cart’s route

As I traverse the narrow commoner’s

Path of haywain and turnstile.

 

The easterly batters in from the sea

Mud squelches my gumboots brown.

Rather the earthy envigorating sound

 

Of night’s ramble than the casual

Insouciance of words invented

For constipated management speak.

 

 

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tumbling

Inert, or maybe paralysed with waiting

I tumble towards music.

The guitar strums Theodorakis

Without me, the piano reminds me

I can read the score of a simple

Gymnopédie without the cartwheels.

I’m just stuck in one spot

An amateur in this life business

Watching the wind pick up.

 

Only when the house is quiet

The cosy nest blooming with salvia

Seedlings ready to grow wings

Does thought return an inkling

Of restoration. I put free fall away

Reclaim pen and paper

Steel myself in case music decides

To leave me,

And I garden on.

 

 

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Spider, Fig and Jasmine

Moreton Bay figs frame my work world as diorama

All sinewed, strong, leaning forward

With grandeur and hauteur reminding me

Of my privilege.

 

Often I pause to imbibe the view,

A retreat into privacy, only me and the trees

For a second. Today a tiny green gold

Spider dropped into the scene

 

Joining me in quiet reverie

So symmetrical, elongated, delicate an insect

As to bring composure to a day of measurable

Delights. Then there was jasmine

 

 

 

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still i struggle to write music

movement first, my hand conducts words as they swoop down around me

as cadences of possibility chording through time. only read the rhythm

walk a sentence to the end of the world so that it becomes the beat of your feet

pacing one two three four, soar like Puck’s garland in a midsummer caper

(note to self, without haste).  space    space     there resides the common touch

within our little planet of limitations this fact of being, in place, in places made to share

i place place, placing sounds around places of the mind, an examined life made better

for the digging. still I struggle with beauty a violin is bowing into ground not yet uncovered i

sense the tremor of having been,  following the line until night ends, ends in thoughts of

a heart’s pilgrimage to all that is well welling up sempre staccato on and on

 

 

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Nature’s Rhythm

The rain buckets are full.

We still rug up inside yawning

To keep warm.

 

Rose flourish spurts

On towards budding as

The early bloomer

 

Sends out signs of change.

I am no gardener

Except a cliché

 

Makes me feel so:

That the hard work

Has helped something

 

Grow, if also satisfaction

Bred of digging and pruning

And lifting bags of soil

 

And trees, shrubs, seedlings

The thrill of mail order

Packages with tenderlings

 

Poking tiny green leaflets

In a new air. The promise

Of a certain predictability

 

Plays a rhythm

In my meadowpatch;

How nature bestows some

 

Confidence mulched in

With the pellets of dynamic

Lifter and citrus food.

 

My cherry tree waits

For spring

When you were born

 

Eyeing this world

With a quizzical curiosity,

Nearly twenty-one years ago.

 

 

 
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The 7th day

Of rain.

 

How softly the sound rests a mind

Dulled from workday chores

 

A day spent in the service of

Bureaucracy.

 

I glimpsed that other

Life though:

 

Light so eery trees

Blurred into a grainy

 

Electric grey of metallic trunks

Slicing through the landscape

 

Buildings reflecting rain-sun

Shimmering with fright

 

Though I was the one who froze

Momentarily fixated on a view

 

Framed by a pause,

The possibility of escape.

 

All that splotching and splashing.

Icarus, ignoring painterly advice

 

Jumped out of the picture

Into the incoming storm

 

Almost unseen. Maybe

I saw him dart off . . .

 

The 7th day of rain

Saw myth at work.

 

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