Moon Glance

She looked out from her floating boat of a cocoon

Down through the black mist to the shimmering shapes

And curves of her symbiotic friend, far away below the seas

Of space, too far to make sense of all that noise of war and earthquakes and the poor. The mist

Came down in the northern sky, a curtain of silence

As she sailed on, and on, to another world.


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how did it come to this

that a violin becomes that past?


I trace the thought back until it recedes

into darkness, unable to find the moment


a block of wood turned to tears


that metaphor that is no metaphor

for a train. Richter took his violin

on that ride, Masekela took his voice




chords of compulsion

composed by those who cry

before, during, after





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Rain Rustle

I set out to chart the weather

As an excuse to draw on

Graph paper


Once it mattered

That the pressures and tides

Were meticulously mapped


So that a route

Could be chosen

With clarity and reassurance.


These days the experts

Present synoptic charts

With half-hearted predictions.


There’s timpani in the garden

Stacatto agitato dropping

Wine chimes on a bucket.


I concentrate in silence

Hearing each drop

Elude time, make a mark.



Cars swish away

Like the slow


Rustle of a thumb

Roll on a drum,

Resonating rain.


The garden stirs

Shuffling to music

Like an old sailor


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Tenacity: Cypresses XIV

The southerly fury whipped their brittleness

Like curses and still they stood. A stolid rejection

Of inclemency, a tenacity from long ago

Transplanted to this foreign land long before

I arrived in these suburbs, also a stranger.

Here they use the term native with pride so

I plod warily on this land though my cypresses

Declare ownership with bellicose grandeur.

I am content to shelter in their shadows

Observing that the filigree delicacy of a climbing

Hibbertia can also ride out the storm.


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