Poems

re locations 

            “when the river was the beach…”

                         
at the road’s edge

                        the desert

what else?                               desert        

 

                       birds         

            - ghost species

of my later failed research -    

 

            sway in

the arrow-grass

            others      live on air

                      
like a lesson                  (in design/aesthetics)

            for schoolkids         distant enough
           
     from remote central

 

not to have to make the drive    

                        the thought

that service in the bush might be

 

time spent inside      or early recruitment propaganda:

how many years did you do?

                                                while

 

pommels of cloud settled on the plain blue horizon

            take on a faintly orange

                                                aspect or glow –

                                   
the pilliga ablaze?

                        just the slightly altered

perspective you gain                                           by the sun

                       
      glasses you’re wearing

                        even as a final wedge

of failed light                        falls in           

           
            over town

                 to remind you of ‘home’

someone on                 the coast’s calling

           
            the slopes and plains                        the one thing

    and you’d go                   a long way           

                                                  to leave the plains

 

tour of the local area from the window of a stationary vehicle

this time with time
to spare each night
on leaving a river

of light courses as far
as to flush the tower
and set in concrete

mounted at just that
mutual angle down
by the hyperactive auto

matic doors a giant mirror
restores sight to the blind
corner. they were the day’s

observations. in that order.
according to the local news
least.   across the road 

in the improvised car-lot
we’re taking notes rounding
out the search for imperfection

when you haven’t arrived
i’ll lift out the insert tilt   
to faintly lit the tiny print

learn what the song
(sleeping lessons) says/
was saying all along. 

poet's biography ->