A Winter’s Tale

Then rain came and the garden

woke, too soon for summer

and with no spring, a cadence

of green melodies sung

from a winter sky. Darkness

left a tune of sounds, scattered

sprinklings on a drought dry

ground where climate changed

us

 

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Towards spring

My currawong

has sat on her tree

watching me

for years now.

She can no longer

feel spring

though she finds

colour, and grubs,

in my new plantings

(today of jasmine

and begonia)

pondering

whether to see out

this winter

or fly away and

keep flying

 

Rain

Cymbals in the sky

and rain, an escarpment

of cloudburst like a waterfall

swashbuckling down the city streets

while we took shelter, all us walkers

and workers, gawking

at the spectacle

 

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Hyacinth and Sweet Peas

Still winter lingers

in the now grey sky

though strong scents

drop like rain

rosettes of petals

pink and mauve,

spring in a vase.

 

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August winter

A poem in a box

awaits

editing, rewriting

thought.

 

August winds

then,

and now I feel their

carelessness

 

differently

without the thrill

of a cold day

turning

 

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Possum, again

Poor thing, first stock still

staring as I watered the patch

catching me by surprise,

so tentative, an injured

creature with one eye.

 

Second time huddled

beneath a window

as if contemplating one

it knows as the gardener,

waiting for some gesture

 

 

 

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On the Blue Notebooks and Reading

Slipping away to read

by candlelight

 

where possibilities of peace

cartwheel

 

through words scribbled and redrafted

and tactile, books;

 

though news roars in

bombastic and crude, scapegoats

 

behind every wick.

Music flickers, not snuffed nor dimmed-

 

Steady, an ark.

 

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