in which an evening gravitates

Waves of scent drift on the night air

to the sound of gravity, a sensory

end to a time in space so long ago

before a hoya or salvia broke free

from the tumble of leaf and seed

and soil to plant themselves here

where the stars spin on unaware


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Dusk droop

A last bee droops in the dusk- heat hanging around

long after the swarm has gone. Salvias give up

vigour shrugging insect-chirp away in this

lacklustre air. Only lorikeets and miners sway

to an umbrella-fruit gig indifferent to the comical

sweaty shape buzzing around in meadowpatch.



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above the garden

the house waits. two lights across a corridor

stir nothing for the garden has closed up

for the night. even the wilting salvias

sag to sleep maybe to recover in morning

slurping up fresh water from a well-hosed

soil. growth dozes. except, lamps regale the house,

two humans repose with words, digging past

the midnight hour high above the garden

digging up the past in boxes and books



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