Darkness is the absence of light – 31/12/17

Laying in the litter of black bark,

The dark is strewn with our shadows

We carpet the ground beneath the trees

And we cannot see our feet

But even in this layer of geological light

Or non-light, absence of light, everything-but-light cake layer,

There is a small stirring; something is awake,

On the tops of the shapeless shadows,

Suddenly less black, more brown, almost green,

The crickets are singing imperceptibly in some far off place, as high as the soft laughing tree heads, curly tops,

And down here, where we are as low as you can get without digging a hole,

We can smell the promise of dawn coming in an hour or a minute or a day,

Light comes so softly you cannot hear it breathing, till,

Till… and here it is.




Wakefulness – 15/11/17

Why am I still up? It’s the moon, the moon, it’s much too bight.
It’s the silence, it’s my heart,
all the thumping, footsteps, running.
Why am I still awake?
It’s the lumps in my bed,
It’s the sea, it’s the sea, it’s much to dark,
and it’s crashing in on itself, and I’m afraid, I’m scared that it will
disappear, disintegrate in every smash of every pulse.
The walls are much too smooth, my bed is much too safe. Why am I still up?
Because my coffee cup is empty, and I smashed it into shards
and they’re turning into powder, and so, what if when I pour my cup next
I mistake the pottery sand for coffee beans and make my tea with that instead?
I’ll wind up dead!
And if there are tangents, are they staying up late at night, sitting with steaming cups, plotting over benches like so many sharp toothed worms, grinning at my discomforture when I find I cannot sea them,
are they underground?
And was that last typo an intentional working of my brain
as a deep illusion to the ocean or, not?
My head aches, that is why I cannot sleep.
And why am I still up? Well would you put me down?
What would you call this sweet insomnia if it was late for tea?
And if I was running with it, would you wait?

The Wind Will Not Stay

It’s hard to find a meaningful thought, when you don’t really know what you want to say.
Look at the way the wind beats the grass into soft waves running up the bank of the dam. You can see it start from the furtherest blade, it eddies and swirls till it runs out with a sigh at your feet. The rustling of the wild oats is the chiming of thousands of tiny paper bells.
Remember when we ran fast through these paddocks, your soft blonde hair laughing in the wind. We filled our shoelaces with itchy golden grass seeds and never felt them prick until we ran inside. These paddocks were filled with wild bulls and spaceships, I had the knack of making all our play seem real.the cool dark green shadows were forests filled with ancient steadfast trees and all our favourite stories. Back then we knew with absolute certainty that the sunshine would last forever.
And it has! Look at it. I’m sitting in the hard trodden path between the sea of grass, and the sandy beaches are filled with sunshine, it pools in every divot of the glossy green poplar leaves, it skims the top of the wild oat waves.
Heading back, my feet take me unerringly to the faded path cutting down the bank of the dam. It was made long ago by calves, exuberant with life, running up and down the bank, again and yet again, as their mothers, large with sweet grass stood steadfast and chewed.
After I slam the screen door behind me, I strip off the shoes and socks made prickly by golden grass seeds, which I have picked up just by a quiet walk through sunny waves.

In The Valley – 3/10/17

I randomly stumbled upon a quote that went something like this; you won’t remember mowing the lawn or going to work, so go climb that mountain! And it got me thinking about the little things in life, so this is sort of my response to that quote, because we can’t always be climbing mountains. 

I might remember when I mowed the lawn, pushing the monster through the tangled green, wearing black gumboots and a red face, the giant hum shielding my ears from all other sounds and the daisies cheeky, never cut, for they are too low to the ground.

I might remember when I curled exhausted in the chair and closed my eyes, and the air swirled outside my eyelids, dark green, and red and splashes of yellow around the mahogany furniture. And when I opened my eyes my eyelashes swept up against my curled fingers that were propping up my face.

And I might remember how every time I highlight text electronically, no matter how many colours I used last time; green for common use, yellow for sub-points and blue for quotes, it always stains dark pink when I start again, because that is always the colour I used last, the colour of extremely important points.